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Dear  Friends : 


Who  read  my  heartfelt  lines 

1  send  you  greeting  from  "The  Pines. 


-QoU^^^  -pcxi^^^ 


BaDads  of  the  Hi 


BY 

JOHN  FOSTER 


THE  JOHN  B.  CLARKE  COMPANY 

MANCHESTER.  N.  H. 

1908 


Cojjyriyht,  1908. 


I  dedicate  this  volume  of  poems 
to  the  surviving  members  of  my 
CoHege  Class,  Dartmouth,  1876, 
every  one  of  whom  I  love  and 
honor. 


FOREWORD. 

To  him  who  loves  nature  and  nature's  God  many  hidden 
things  are  revealed.  The  brook's  laughter  on  its  way  to  the 
sea  is  music  to  his  ear.  The  breeze  that  sways  the  maples 
and  the  lordly  pines  sings  to  him  a  divine  anthem  in  praise  of 
the  great  Creator. 

Such  an  one  is  John  Foster,  poet,  scholar,  and  friend  of 
mankind.  Like  Abou  Ben  Adhem  of  old,  if  asked  by  the 
recording  angel  what  should  be  written  of  him,  he  would  say, 
"Write  me  as  one  who  loves  his  fellow-men."  A  child  of 
nature,  he  loves  the  woods,  the  streams,  and  the  hills  of  his 
native  state;  her  stalwart  sons  and  fair  daughters,  many  of 
whom  have  passed  to  "that  bourne  from  which  no  traveler 
returns,"  whose  praises  find  such  tender  expression  in  these 
simple,  yet  beautiful,  "Ballads  of  the  Hills." 

FRANK  H.  COLLEY. 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


THE  OLD  NEW  HAMPSHIRE  HILLS. 

I  linger  on  the  wave-washed  shore, 

Where  time's  grim  wreck  my  vision  fills, 

But  turn  my  longing  heart  once  more 
To  old  New  Hampshire's  hills. 

Those  storied  heights,  how  oft  of  old, 
I  've  heard  from  lips  now  still  and  cold 

The  tale, — long  years  ago  the  fathers  came 
And  gave  to  each  a  lasting  name. 

To  me  it  is  the  same  old  joy 

To  stand  upon  their  rock-crowned  crests. 
And  view  their  solemn  grandeur. 

As  years  ago  when  but  a  boy. 

Above  their  features,  stern  but  fair. 
There  floats  the  incense  of  pure  air; 

O'er  each  there  clusters  song  and  story; 
Each  has  a  legend,  each  a  glory. 

I  venerate  where'er  I  stand 

The  works  of  the  great  Master  hand, 

But  most  of  all  the  Titan  skill, 
Which  made  my  dear  old  native  hill. 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Oh,  the  homes  upon  the  hillsides 
And  the  friends  who  once  lived  here! 

Tho'  some  still  linger,  some  have  gone; 
To  my  heart  they  all  are  near. 

There  are  graves  upon  the  hillsides, 
Bound  which  fond  memories  flow; 

O'er  some  there  floats  a  tiny  flag; 
On  some  the  violets  grow. 

O  sleepers  on  the  grand  old  hills. 
Can  you  hear  the  robin  sing? 

And  the  linnet  when  he  trills  his  lay 
On  restless,  quivering  wing? 

Do  you  know  the  beauties  of  the  morn. 

The  soft,  sad  shades  of  eve? 
The  glorious  foliage  of  June, 

Or  tint  of  autumn  leaves? 

The  loves  of  years  are  buried  there; 

Fond,  faithful  hearts  are  still. 
Waiting  for  the  angel  call 

To  be  heard  among  the  hills. 

Sitting  here  upon  the  shore, 

Old  faces  seem  to  come  once  more, 

Whispers  of  love  I  seem  to  hear; 

Dear  ones,  I  feel  you  're  ever  near. 

E'en  now,  as  in  the  past,  you  're  true; 

Rest  on,  and  when  the  Master  wills 
That  I  may  go, 

I  '11  camp  among  the  hills  with  you. 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


KEARSARGE,  A  MONARCH  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Thy  crest  above  a  hundred  hilk 

Eests  peerless  and  alone. 
Posed  like  a  giant  mountain  king 

Upon  a  giant  throne. 

Companion  of  the  thunderclouds. 

Which  kiss  thy  stony  face. 
And  often  in  the  summer  days 

Hold  thee  in  their  embrace. 

From  'neath  thy  shade  brave  men  have  passed 

To  battle  with  the  world. 
And  stood  in  line  before  the  foe 

With  banners  never  furled. 

I  saw  thee  in  my  childhood  days 

Bathed  in  the  morning  light, 
And  thought  the  other,  fairer  world 

Lay  just  beyond  thy  height. 

I  see  thee  now  and  read  the  lines 

On  nature's  open  page. 
And  hail  thee  as  a  monarch  grand 

Of  the  dim  Devonian  age. 

You  bear  the  scars  which  ice  and  rock 

Upon  your  surface  tore. 
And  boulders  left  upon  your  slopes 

When  the  glacial  days  were  o'er. 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

But  still  you  stand  in  nature's  plan, 

A  feature  grand  and  large. 
Forever  bearing  that  great  name, 

The  famous  Kearsarge. 

Guard  on,  grand  peak,  thy  fame  sublime; 

Its  lustre  of  the  past 
Shall  glow  undimmed  on  history's  page 

As  long  as  time  shall  last. 

^w  t^  ^*  f^^ 

TO  THE  TIGER  LILY. 

Why  do  I  love  thee  best  of  all, 

Dear  flowering  plant  of  olden  time? 

Why  does  thy  blossom  hold  my  heart. 
When  others  are  as  fair  as  thine? 

It  is  because  in  life's  young  day 
I  planted  seeds  and  saw  them  grow; 

I  saw  them  blossom  in  their  way; 

They  died  and  withered,  all  but  you. 

My  hopes,  like  flowers,  have  withered  too; 

The  winds  of  time  have  blown  them  wide. 
And  while  I  linger  here  alone. 

Be  thou  my  emblem  and  my  guide. 

Emblem  of  faith,  you  never  die; 

Emblem  of  hope,  you  bloom  each  morn; 
Emblem  of  love,  you  linger  still, 

And  blossom  when  all  else  is  gone. 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

This  little  verse  I  give  to  thee; 

I  give  it  humbly,  as  a  slave; 
Bloom  on  along  my  pathway  here. 

And  blossom  ever  o'er  my  grave. 

i5*         ^*         ^*         ^* 

IN   LOVING  MEMORY  OF  THE  OLD  HOYT  SCHOOL- 
HOUSE,   WARNER,   N.   H. 

Back  o'er  the  lapse  of  many  years 

My  memory  drifts  tonight; 
Back  over  days  that  were  sad  and  dark, 

O'er  days  of  joy  and  light. 

Back  to  the  time  when  my  boyish  heart 
Beat  quick  with  its  youthful  thrill; 

Back  to  the  time  when  I  learned  to  read 
In  the  schoolhouse  under  the  hill. 

Shaded  by  maples,  grand  and  tall, 

Flanked  by  an  ancient,  moss-grown  wall, 

Beside  a  sparkling,  bubbling  rill. 

Stood  the  old  schoolhouse  under  the  hill. 

As  quaint,  uncouth,  and  grim  it  stood. 

It  stands  in  memory  still; 
No  paint  or  fresco  decked  the  walls 

Of  the  schoolhouse  under  the  hill. 

And  flowers  are  blooming  there  today, 

Which  thro'  the  frost  and  snow 
Have  lived  since  they  were  set  by  us 

Some  forty  years  ago. 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

How  bright  the  morning  sun  of  youth 

Shone  on  our  childish  Hfe; 
The  world  had  little  else  but  smiles. 

We  knew  not  of  its  strife. 

Where  are  the  lads  who  went  to  school 

In  those  happy  days  of  old? 
Where  are  the  girls  with  dimpled  cheeks 

And  clustering  locks  of  gold? 

Upon  the  benches  in  those  days 

Sat  boys  with  sturdy  hearts, 
Who,  in  the  times  that  tried  men's  souls. 

Bore  brave  and  manly  parts. 

Some  fought  thro'  the  cruel  war; 

One  fell  before  the  foe. 
And  in  a  yard  not  far  away 

A  flag  waves  o'er  poor  Joe. 

A  fair,  young  girl  in  memory  dwells, 
Whom  adulation  could  not  spoil; 

Before  the  northern  blasts  she  fell, 

And  Drusa  sleeps  'neath  southern  soil. 

The  schoolhouse,  boys,  and  girls  are  gone. 
Naught  but  the  flowers  remains; 

Yet  musing  there  sometimes  alone 
They  seem  to  come  again. 

Again  I  hear  the  teacher's  voice, 

Tho'  hushed  for  many  a  year; 
The  boyish  shout  rings  forth  once  more. 

And  yet  no  boys  are  here. 

10 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


The  tiny  stream  flows  as  of  old, 

'Neath  hedge  of  beech  and  thorn; 
And  in  its  murmuring  seems  to  say, 

"Oh,  girls  and  boys,  where  have  you  gone?" 


Had  I  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  Danube, 

Or  camped  by  the  river  Po, 
Or  seen  the  tides  through  the  Golden  Gate 

In  measure  ebb  and  flow; 

Or  gazed  on  the  glaciers  of  the  North, 

And  the  palm  trees  of  Brazil, 
My  heart  would  still  love  best  of  all 

The  schoolhouse  under  the  hill. 

t^w        t^*        (^*        t,5* 

GOD'S  GARDEN. 

Would  you  see  God's  Garden  at  its  best? 
Go  'neath  the  morning  sheen  and  rest 
Upon  a  moss-grown  mound 
Within  its  border  green. 

No  hand  of  man  has  shaped  it; 
Its  beauties  are  its  own; 
True  to  the  art  of  Nature 
Its  flowers  and  ferns  have  grown. 

Tapering  ferns  with  their  sceptres  of  green 
They  encircle  the  rocks  like  the 
Crown  of  a  queen. 

11 


BALLADS   OF  THE  HILLS. 

Arbutus  has  bloomed, 
The  pearl  of  spring  air, 
In  perfume  so  fragrant, 
In  beauty  so  rare; 
No  flower  of  man's  garden 
Can  with  it  compare. 

But  here  is  goldenrod. 
Loved  by  all  the  world; 
Its  banner  of  beauty 
Is  ever  unfurled. 

Its  petals  so  tiny. 
Yet  withal  so  bright. 
The  verdure  around  them 
Partakes  of  their  light. 

The  wild  rose, 

Eeflecting  the  sunlight  above, 
Gives  a  smile  to  the  morn 
Like  a  bride  to  her  love. 

Here  is  columbine, 
Coquette  of  flower  and  vine. 
With  a  pose  like  a  statue 
And  a  blush  like  red  wine. 

Gaze  well  on  the  buttercups. 

For  here  they  are  seen 

Gleaming  like  stars  in  a  heaven  of  green. 

The  modest  primrose  unfolds  in  evening  air. 
And  its  blossoms  delicate  and  rare 
The  humming  bird  will  seek, 
To  taste  their  fragrance  rare. 

12 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

From  the  cold,  black  earth 
Springs  a  flower  of  beautiful  hue. 
And  the  wood  violet 
Chastens  the  sky  with  its  blue. 

Just  beyond  the  tiny  rill, 

Which  bubbles  on  'neath  fern  and  bower. 

Standing  stately  as  the  hills 

Is  the  royal  cardinal  flower. 

Such  is  God's  Garden  at  its  best, 
And  these  are  emblems  from  his  hand; 
Emblems  of  a  distant  land, 
Emblems  of  a  clearer  light, 
Where  the  sun  ne'er  sets  at  night. 

A  MEMORY  OF  BADGER  HILL,  WARNER,  N.  H. 

Amid  the  trees  on  Badger  hill, 

Robin  Redbreast  sings  all  day; 
At  morning  'tis  a  joyous  trill. 

At  eve,  a  mournful  lay. 

His  notes  seem  something  more  to  me 
Than  a  wild  bird's  simple  song. 

For  in  my  heart  fond  memories  wake; 
They  've  slumbered,  ah,  too  long. 

I  fancy  that  he  calls  the  names 

Of  friends  I  ne'er  shall  see. 
Who  in  the  joyous  days  of  old 

Trod  Badger  hill  with  me, 

13 


BALLADS   OF  THE  HILLS. 

There  come  again  two  boys  in  blue. 

With  heart  and  courage  strong, 
Who  marched  to  war  with  spirits  blithe 

As  the  robin's  morning  song. 

Another  vision  far  more  sad. 

For  each  a  loyal,  sweet  life  gave, — 

Those  boys  at  rest  'neath  mounds  of  fern. 
A  flag  of  glory  o'er  their  grave. 

Oh,  boys,  my  friends  of  life's  young  day. 
When  youth's  morning  sun  shone  bright, 

Can  you  hear  with  me  the  robin's  lay. 
As  he  sings  from  morn  till  night? 

And  see  the  change  on  Badger  hill. 
Which  forty  years  have  made? 

Or  is  the  night  of  death  so  dark 
You  cannot  pierce  its  shade? 

My  fondest  hope  of  all  is  this. 
That  the  dead  may  hear  and  see 

The  blessed  Angel  of  the  Lord 
When  he  sounds  the  reveille. 

^*         t^%         t5*         t^* 

THE  OLD  STONE  WALL. 

[Delivered  at  the  Old  Home  Day  meeting,  August,  1903, 
at  Salisburj',  N.  H.] 

Our  fathers,  when  they  cleared  these  farms. 

Had  work  enough  for  all, 
For  when  they  'd  nothing  else  to  do 

They  went  to  building  wall. 

14 


BALLADE  OF  THE  HILLS. 

They  built  stone  wall  in  summer  time, 

They  built  it  in  the  fall; 
By  daylight  and  by  candle-light. 

They  were  always  building  wall. 

I  was  told  by  a  friend  of  old, 
Whose  memory  I  love  and  keep> 

That  one  tough-hided  son  of  the  soil 
Built  stone  wall  in  his  sleep. 

They  built  them  criss-cross  o'er  the  plain, 

And  criss-cross  o'er  the  hill, 
And  though  they  've  stood  a  hundred  years, 

They  're  in  commission  still. 

The  stiffest  thing  our  boys  in  blue 

Were  up  against  of  all. 
Was  he  who  bore  the  sobriquet 

Of  "Jackson,  the  Stone  Wall." 

The  smoothest  thing  their  fathers  had 

Was,  when  at  evening  call, 
They  mixed  old  eider  with  new  rum, 

And  called  it  "The  Stone  Wall." 

They  were  a  hardy,  nervy  race, 
Who  knew  the  worth  of  muscle; 

The  way  they  had  to  make  ends  meet 
Was  drink  "Stone  Wall"  and  hustle. 

They  were  sturdy,  fearless  men. 

And  when  the  war  storm  fell. 
They  drank  "Stone  Wall"  at  Bunker  Hill, 

And  whaled  the  redcoats  well. 


16 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

I  am  told  by  my  good  friend  Shaw,* 
Whose  imagination  's  large. 

That  he  has  been  by  Stone  Wall  route 
To  the  summit  of  Kearsarge. 

That  the  only  coon  he  ever  lost, 
Which  once  he  'd  started  well, 

Was  when  a  dose  of  old  "Stone  Wall" 
Had  laid  him  out  a  spell. 

The  woodchuck  lives  beneath  it. 
The  chipmunk  skips  above, 

And  in  the  corner,  'neath  the  shade. 
The  boys  and  girls  make  love. 

Upon  yon  ancient  double  wall, 

Where  no  human  ear  could  reach. 

The  Senatorf  roosted  after  tea. 
And  rehearsed  his  Old  Home  speech. 

Why  should  he  not,  for  he  was  heard 
By  crickets,  frogs,  and  owls. 

And  their  discordant  chorus 

Made  him  think  of  Senate  howls. 

Men  may  come,  and  men  may  go. 

And  nations  rise  and  fall. 
But  still  will  stand  forevermore 

The  famous  old  stone  wall. 

We  soon  must  pass  beyond  the  mist. 
We  soon  shall  hear  the  call, 

But  give  me  just  before  I  go 
A  drink  of  "Old  Stone  Wall." 


•  Hon.  John  Shaw,  president  of  the  day. 
t  U.  S.  Senator  Gallinger. 

16 


BALLADS  OF  THE  BILLS. 


THE  WOODLAND  WALKS  OF  OLD. 

Oh,  the  woodland  walks  of  old! 
When  young  life  seemed  a  day  of  gold; 
The  sun  of  youth  shone  clear  and  bright, 
And  stars  of  promise  gave  kindly  light. 

The  summer  strolls  to  meet  the  tryst 

Of  a  friend  whose  promise  never  missed; 

That  friend  was  the  moon  of  the  summer  night, 

And  her  smile  was  the  smile  of  the  pale  moonlight. 

The  forest  walks  in  autumn  days. 

Beneath  October's  mellow  haze, 

When  squirrels  stored  the  nuts  as  they  fell. 

And  the  partridge  clucked  to  his  mate  in  the  dell. 

The  walks  in  winter  grim  and  chill, 
When  the  trees  stood  ghostly  and  dead  and  still; 
But  with  promise  ever,  and  not  in  vain, 
That  their  buds  should  burst  and  bloom  again. 

Those  woodland  walks  in  life's  young  day 
Will  always  in  my  memory  stay. 
And  ever  of  my  loving  heart 
Eemain  a  living,  lasting  part. 

Why  is  it  when  men  grow  rich  and  gay. 
They  seek  the  scenes  of  far  away. 
And  hearts  and  homes  of  another  kind, 
Leave  paths  and  loves  of  youth  behind? 

I  know  not  why,  I  cannot  tell; 

In  the  end  perhaps  it  's  just  as  well. 

17 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

THE  PLACE  WHERE  WE  MADE  MUD  PIES. 

[Read  on  Thanksgiving  Day,  1906.] 

Sister,  I  have  strolled  today, 

Beneath  the  summer  skies. 
Up  among  the  dear  old  hills. 

To  the  place  where  we  made  mud  pies. 

The  egg-shaped  rock  is  still  in  sight. 

The  old  stone  wall  is  there. 
The  cherry  and  the  apple  tree. 

The  rose  scent  fills  the  air. 

I  almost  saw  our  baby  tracks. 
Where  we  played  beside  the  way. 

In  gladsome,  childish  jubilee. 
On  that  far  distant  day. 

I  listened,  and  I  seemed  to  hear 

The  ox  teams'  steady  jog. 
And  Sambo  at  a  woodchuck's  hole. 

That  brave,  old,  long-eared  dog. 

I  sat  upon  the  egg-shaped  stone. 

Gave  way  to  memory's  will; 
A  sound!     Was  't  shout  of  John  or  Fred? 

And  were  they  near  me  still? 

'T  was  but  the  call  of  the  summer  wind 
As  it  blew  o'er  Badger  hill. 

18 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

I  found  a  faded,  withered  rose. 

Cast  by  the  garden  side; 
Think  you  it  was  an  emblem 

Of  sister  dear  who  died? 

O,  can  it  be,  that  budding  flower, 
Just  bursting,  fair  and  bright. 

Has  faded  in  the  many  years 
It 's  bloomed  in  heavenly  light? 

Ah,  no!    The  sweet  and  gifted  child. 

Led  by  the  Master's  hand. 
Is  fairer  far  than  earthly  rose. 

In  that  free  and  happy  land. 

As  days  like  shadows  pass  away. 

And  here  I  linger  still. 
Like  rare,  old  wine  the  memory  flows 

Of  that  home  upon  the  hill. 

Near  fifty  years,  and  what  a  change! 

But  pleasant  thoughts  still  rise 
Of  the  egg-shaped  rock  beside  the  way, 

The  place  where  we  made  mud  pies. 

The  apple  trees  still  bear  their  fruit. 
But  the  old  house  is  not  there, 

And  loved  ones,  all  but  you  and  me. 
Have  gone — 0  tell  me  where! 

But,  sister,  let  us  fondly  hope. 

When  our  boat  has  touched  the  shore, 
Lucy  and  Georgie  will  be  there 

To  greet  us  as  of  yore. 

19 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

And  as  we  plod  life's  weary  way, 

Forever  let  us  prize 
The  memory  of  that  dear  old  spot, 

The  place  where  we  made  mud  pies. 

So,  sister  dear,  here  's  health  and  cheer. 
And  while  on  earth  we  stay. 

Let 's  live  again  those  good  old  times. 
Each  glad  Thanksgiving  day. 

JtTLY,  1906. 

(5*  ^*  ^*  o* 


"BILL  VITTY." 

[William  Vitty  of  Weare,  N,  H.,  is  without  doubt  the  cham- 
pion fox  hunter  of  the  state.  Whoever  knows  this  goodly, 
honest  man,  will  credit  his  claim  of  over  one  thousand  foxes 
shot  by  him.  Withal  he  is  a  fine  violinist  of  the  old  school. 
Hence  these  lines.] 

Under  the  crest  of  "Eattle  Hill," 
Waiting,  patient,  the  whole  day  thro', 
Thinking  not  old  time  to  kill. 
But  a  fox  if  he  chance  to  come  in  view. 
Stands  Bill. 

His  hound,  "Old  Fly,"  is  on  the  trail. 
Her  scent  and  eye  can  never  fail. 
She  knows  the  cunning  dog  fox  ways 
And,  when  she  has  him  at  her  will. 
Straight  she  drives  toward  "Rattle  Hill" 
And  Bill. 

SO 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

A  flash,  a  roar  from  "London  Twist," 
Discharge  from  a  gun  that  never  missed. 
And  reynard  falls  before  his  skill. 
"That  makes  a  thousand  and  one," 
Says  Bill. 

"Do  you  ever  fail?"  I  said  to  him. 
As  I  shook  his  honest  hand  with  vim. 
He  answered,  drawing  his  wooden  rammer, 

"No,  I  always  kill  as  dead  as  a  hammer, 
I  do,"  said  Bill. 

"Come  home  with  me,  friend;  't  ain't  far  away, 
We  've  done  enough  for  one  cold  day; 
Good  food  and  bed  are  at  your  will. 
And  they  're  paid  for,  too," 
Said  honest  Bill. 

"Lucy  will  have  the  table  spread 
With  hot  baked  beans, 
And  nice  brown  bread, 
Indeed,  you  will  not  have  to  ask 
A  mug  of  cider  from  the  cask. 

"We  '11  eat  and  drink  and  stories  tell, 
Come  on.  Old  Fly!     Let's  go!" 

Said  Bill. 

• 

*T  was  as  the  good  man  said  and  more. 
Baked  beans  and  cider,  fox  yarns  galore; 
We  talked  till  morning  hours  were  nigh. 
Some  credit  he  took,  gave  more  to  "Fly.'* 
He  told  the  tales  from  his  hunter's  log. 
As  he  loved  his  life,  he  loved  his  dog. 
Did  Bill. 

21 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

''Now,  Lucy,  bring  the  violin, 
I  '11  give  my  friend  a  tune, 
'Money  Musk,'  that  contra  figger, 
Or  perhaps  you  like  'Zip  Coon.' " 
What  a  Bill! 

Did  you  ever  dream  of  ecstacy 
In  music's  sweet  embrace? 
Have  vision  of  a  heavenly  joy? 
Then  watch  Bill  Vitty's  face. 

As  on  that  prince  of  instruments 
The  old-time  tune  he  plays. 
And  his  dark  blue  eye  is  radiant 
As  he  calls  back  good  old  lays. 

'T  is  thus  I  sing  of  an  humble  man, 
But  of  noble  virtues  still, 
A  loyal  heart,  as  staunch  and  strong. 
As  firm  as  Eattle  Hill, 
Such  is  Bill. 

A  type  of  Nature's  sons  now  rare, 
A  soul  as  pure  as  our  mountain  air, 
Here  among  New  Hampshire  hills, 
A  life  as  free  as  the  game  he  kills. 
That  's  Bill. 


22 


"  That's  Bill " 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


AMI   BROOK. 


[A  stream  bordering  the  highway  between  Henniker  and 
Bradford,  N.  H.] 

The  racing,  bubbling,  gurgling  stream 

Purls  on  beside  the  way; 
October  banners  o'er  it  gleam 

In  colors  rare  and  gay. 

The  sunbeam  glints  its  mimic  tide 

With  shaft  of  painted  light; 
The  moonbeam  sends  along  its  wave 

Weird  shadows  of  the  night. 

But  still  the  tireless  brook  sings  on. 

Past  meadow,  wood,  and  hill. 
All  heedless  of  the  night  or  day. 

It  recks  not  good  or  ill. 

Pause  by  the  stream  and  tell  your  wrongs, 

Ye  sorrowing  ones  of  earth; 
The  Ami  Brook  will  drown  your  woes. 

With  song  of  joyous  mirth. 

When  those  who  love  kneel  by  its  wave, 
And  speak  their  heart  words  there, 

The  echo  of  the  Ami  Brook 
Is  sweeter  than  their  prayer. 

0  forests  guarding  ever, 

In  figures  grim  and  brave. 
Know  ye  the  sylph-like  language 

Of  Ami's  restless  wave? 

23 


BALLADS   OF  THE  HILLS. 

The  song-birds  carol  in  the  trees, 
The  winds  sough  loud  and  long, 

But  Ami  Brook  alone  gives  forth 
Eternal  endless  song. 

iff^       ^w       tS^       f3^ 

TO  THE  WARNER  HILLS. 

Across  the  dear  old  "Warner  hills 

The  winds  of  God  blow  free  and  strong; 

The  hills  that  bore  our  father's  food, 
Tonight  I  give  to  thee  a  song. 

Your  rocky  fissures  have  no  gold. 

Your  rugged  crests  are  grim  and  bare. 

But  still  your  granite  bosoms  hold 
Treasures  that  to  me  are  rare. 

I  love  you  for  the  names  you  bear; 

I  love  you  for  the  graves  you  shade. 
And  for  memory  of  the  friends  of  old 

Whose  homes  upon  your  slopes  were  made. 

Tonight,  beneath  the  summer  stars, 

I  call  the  roll  of  olden  time; 
Some  sleep  amid  magnolia  bloom 

And  some  in  shadow  of  the  pine. 

A  few  still  hold  the  broken  line 
That  battles  onward  thro'  life's  ills, 

And  time  can  never  dim  the  love 
They  feel  for  dear  old  "Warner  hills. 

24 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

And  all  are  coming  back  again 

To  tread  these  grand  old  heights  once  more; 
I  hear  their  voices  thro'  the  mist, 
I  see  their  boats  upon  the  shore. 
August,  1903. 

%?•       t3^       «^       (^^ 

THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY. 

[Inscribed  in  Honor  of  Lieut.  Frank  B.  Hutchinson  of 
Company  E,  who  fell  at  Drury's  Bluff.] 

Memory's  lamp  is  ever  burning, 
Guiding  backward  with  its  glow. 

From  the  pulsing,  throbbing  present. 
To  the  days  of  long  ago. 

From  the  placid,  happy  peacetime. 

With  its  promise  and  its  life. 
Back  behind  the  misty  shadows. 

To  the  grim  old  age  of  strife. 

It  glows  upon  your  faces, 

As  you  dress  the  line  once  more; 
It  lights  again  in  heroes'  eyes, 

When  you  tell  your  stories  o'er. 

The  beacon  of  your  smoke  talks 

By  the  evening  campfire  blaze, 
As  you  call  the  scenes  before  you 

Of  the  grand  old  army  days. 

25 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

On  the  Nation's  glorious  banner, 
'Neath  which  you  fought  and  won, 

It  pictures  from  each  sacred  star 
The  noble  work  you  've  done. 

Oh,  your  comrades  lie  behind  you, 

All  along  your  marching  line. 
Some  beneath  magnolia  blossom, 

And  some  'neath  Carolina  pine! 

Where  they  fought  and  where  they  bivouacked, 
Where  death's  shadow  o'er  them  fell. 

Memory's  lamp  can  guide  you  to  them. 
She  best  of  all  their  deeds  can  tell. 

Veterans,  soldiers,  here  I  hail  you. 

Faithful,  brave,  and  loyal  men! 
You  have  heard  your  marching  orders; 

You  obey  them  now  as  then. 

Toward  the  sunset  ever  moving. 

Going,  going,  one  and  all. 
Sentry,  squadron,  hero  column. 

Follow  at  Fate's  trumpet  call. 

The  story  that  is  left  behind  you 

Shall  be  read  in  every  age, 
And  at  freedom's  shrine  be  cherished 

A  golden  text  on  history's  page. 

With  the  sacred  lamp  of  memory. 

By  its  ever  guiding  rays, 
You  can  trace  your  footsteps  backward. 

Live  again  your  battle  days. 

26 


BALLADS  OF  THE  BILLS. 

Once  more  the  tattoo  at  Cold  Harbor, 
There  now  the  violet  grows. 

And  where  you  charged  at  Drury's  Bluff 
Now  buds  in  peace  the  rose. 

Again  Fort  Fisher's  bastions. 
And  the  carnage  of  the  mine. 

Where  today  your  comrades  sleep 
There  blooms  the  columbine. 

Where  led  the  weary  marches. 

There  now  the  robin  sings; 
Where  burst  the  cannon's  thunder. 

Today  the  church  bell  rings. 

Kind  Mother  Nature,  grant  our  prayer! 

Give  honor  to  the  brave! 
May  every  year  grow  blossoms  rare 

O'er  Hutchinson's  lost  grave!* 

Oh,  peace,  your  blessings  e'er  we  prize! 

To  your  gladsome  ways  we  turn. 
But  ne'er  forget  those  days  of  war. 

While  memory's  lamp  shall  burn. 


•  His  grave  Is  unknown. 


27 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


THE    MONUMENT    BY    PATTEN     BROOK    AND    THE 
BROOK'S    STORY. 

[This  poem  is  dedicated  to  Miss  Mary  A,  Walker,  in  mem- 
ory of  my  friend,  her  father,  Edwin  K.  Walker.] 

INSCRIPTION. 

"This  monument,  erected  by  the  descendants  of  James 
Walker,  marks  the  spot  where  the  first  settlement  was  made 
in  Bedford  by  Eobert  and  James  Walker,  in  1737." 

Reared  by  reverential  hands, 

In  memory  of  the  olden  day. 
While  granite  lasts,  shall  the  stone  endure, 

And  bear  the  Walker  name  for  aye. 

Like  sentinel,  stem  and  brave  it  stands. 
Guarding  storied  treasures,  rare  and  old; 

It  recks  not  heat  of  summer  noon, 
Or  piercing  breath  of  winter  cold. 

Tho'  sunset  glory  gilds  it. 
And  o'er  it  sunrise  banners  gleam. 

Yet  heedless  of  the  dawn  or  eve, 
This  sentry  by  the  silvery  stream. 

And  whether  wild  winds  sing  in  glee. 
Or  night  winds  softly,  sadly  moan, 

A  legend  of  the  days  of  old 

Speaks  from  its  chiseled  lips  of  stone. 


28 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

In  unison  with  the  water  nymph, 

Which  is  singing  ever  near. 
And  her  sylphlike  liquid  music 

Falls  sweet  upon  the  ear. 

In  soft  cadence  ever  purling, 

Spoke  from  currents  ever  whirling. 

Is  heard  a  story  quaint  but  dear. 
Told  from  Nature's  open  book. 
In  song  of  historic  Patten  Brook. 

Stroll  there  and  list  with  me  some  day. 

For  its  voice  is  never  still. 
And  o'er  and  o'er  it  sings  its  lay. 

As  it  flows  past  Walker  Hill, 

Rest  here  beside  the  granite  stone, 

Or  in  shadow  of  a  pine. 
And  drink  from  out  her  golden  horn 

A  draught  of  memory's  wine. 

Oh,  lips  that  ever  speak  with  love. 

Let  now  thy  voice  be  still, 
And  tear  of  recollection  fall 
For  friends  of  mine  who  long  ago 

Left  dear  old  Walker  Hill. 

One  went  who  burnished  life's  grim  shield 
With  kindness  and  good  cheer; 

He  loved  the  forest  and  the  stream, 
Was  loyal,  brave,  sincere. 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

As  friends  pass  on  and  leave  us  here. 
The  hope  grows  grand  and  strong, 
That  somewhere  in  a  realm  unseen, 
In  woodland  shade  or  pasture  green. 
We  '11  see  the  loved  ones  once  again 
"We  've  waited  for  so  long. 

This  cheering,  blessed,  radiant  thought. 
May  it  on  thy  life  e'er  beam. 

And  whisper  comfort  to  thy  soul. 
Like  voice  of  the  murmuring  stream. 


The  Story  Told  by  Patten  Brook. 

"Here  tonight,  in  the  twilight  gloam. 
Where  once  was  the  humble  Walker  home, 
Where  forest,  vast  and  dark  and  grand. 
Shadowed  o'er  the  virgin  land. 
Gone,  gone,  the  home  and  the  woodland  glory; 
I  am  left  alone  to  tell  the  story. 

I  've  measured  many  a  century  span, 
Was  murmuring  here  when  time  began; 
Men  have  come  and  men  have  gone. 
But  still  my  waters  are  flowing  on. 

Flowing,  flowing,  ever  flowing. 
Seaward,  seaward,  ever  going; 
Tho'  days  be  short,  or  days  be  long. 
Singing,  singing  Nature's  song. 

30 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

I  've  seen  the  moose  go  hurrying  by, 
Heard  the  panther's  wild,  fierce  cry; 
E'en  now  it  seems  to  answer  still, 
To  the  bear's  grim  challenge  on  the  hill. 
Still  arbutus  pearls  my  brow 

With  the  glory  of  the  spring; 
Still  in  rich  melody  of  song 

I  hear  the  woodthrush  sing. 

The  partridge  still  clucks  to  her  young. 

Still  the  bluejays  call, 
Still  the  robin's  song  is  sung, 
When  lustrous  banners  of  the  morn 

Throw  golden  glory  over  all. 

But  the  giant  pines,  where  the  red  men  camped, 

The  oaks  upon  the  hill. 
All,  all,  have  vanished  now  for  aye, 

Torn  by  the  white  man's  mill. 

Long,  long  ago,  two  brothers  came; 

The  soil  was  deep  and  rich  and  strong, 
The  waters  swarmed  with  speckled  trout. 

The  woods  were  teeming  with  wild  game. 

So  here  they  built  an  humble  home;     . 

They  hewed  it  from  the  forest  pine, 
And  sought  to  live  by  honest  toil. 

Thought  not  of  fame  or  wealth  of  mine. 
These  brothers  who  were  first  to  come. 


31 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Their  axes  echoed  'mid  the  trees. 
Their  Scottish  songs  broke  on  the  breeze. 
They  wakened  at  the  cuckoo's  call, 

They  wrought  from  morn  till  eve, 
And  when  the  shades  of  night  would  fall, 

They  slept  on  a  bed  of  leaves. 

They  were  men  of  sturdy  strength  and  will. 
And  the  fields  they  cleared  still  bloom; 
The  trees  they  set  still  bear  rich  fruit. 
On  the  slopes  of  Walker  Hill. 

Perhaps  a  lingering  Indian, 

Lurking  along  the  stream, 
Saw  thro'  the  gathering  mist  of  night 

Their  lonely  campfire  gleam. 

And  muttered,  "Aye,  it  is  my  doom. 

The  white  man's  home  is  the  red  man's  tomb. 

Soon  I  must  vanish  with  my  clan. 

Like  the  beast  I  slew;  my  race  I  've  ran; 

Oh,  Manito,  my  God,  my  Friend, 

Protect  my  people  to  the  end." 

The  same  with  him  as  all  mankind, 
Whene'er  disaster  hovers  nigh. 
The  simple  savage  looks  on  high. 
And  'neath  affliction's  scourging  rod. 
Appeals  to  Manito,  his  God." 


The  robin  sings  at  break  of  day. 
But  the  forest  glories  have  passed  away; 

32 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Arbutus  blooms  along  the  rill. 

But  lights  are  out  and  hearts  are  still 

On  the  crest  of  dear  old  Walker  Hill. 

But  yet  the  brook  runs  to  the  sea, 
And  singing  ever  to  you  and  me. 
In  Nature's  pure  and  rythmic  word 
The  voice  of  the  water  nymph  is  heard. 

0  Patten  Brook,  flow  on,  flow  on. 
Forever,  as  in  ages  gone! 

And  in  your  sylphic,  murmuring  tone 

The  story  tell 
To  him  who  rests  by  the  chiseled  stone! 

^5*         (,?•         i^t         f^t 

CHARMS  OF  KINNICUM  SWAMP. 

[Dedicated  to  my  old  friend,  Freem  Godfrey.] 

All  old  boys  who  've  carried  a  gun. 

Heard  a  coon-dog  bark,  seen  a  fox-dog  run. 

Who  've  loved  by  night  or  day  to  romp. 
Have  sometime  been  in  Kinnicum  swamp. 

A  thousand  acres  of  wooded  land. 

Some  of  it  bog,  and  some  of  it  sand: 

The  chosen  haunt  of  all  wild  game. 
It  hence  derives  its  Indian  name. 

1  've  been  there,  yes,  a  hundred  times, 
And  heard  that  sweetest  of  all  chimes. 

The  dogs  on  the  track  with  their  lungs  in  play; 
The  dogs  at  the  tree  with  the  coon  at  bay. 

33 


BALLADS   OF  THE  HILLS. 

I  've  heard  the  queen  of  voices  sing; 

Heard  the  richest  bell  notes  ring; 
Heard  the  grandest  chorus  swell; 

Heard  everything  but  the  Eebel  yell, 

But  no  sweeter  sound  e'er  came  to  me. 
Than  the  grand  old  coon-dog  at  a  tree. 

Thro'  Kinnicum  in  nights  gone  by, 
I  've  tramped  with  "John  B."*  and  with  "Hi/'f 

Hunters  to  the  manner  born; 

Though  passed  from  life,  their  fame  lives  on; 
0  Time,  roll  back,  give  us  once  more. 

Those  goodly  men  from  the  other  shore! 

One  night  with  them;  one  blissful  run 

Thro'  Kinnicum  swamp,  with  dog  and  gun! 

One  night  with  "Scout"  or  "Bose"  or  "Jack"! 
One  joyous  hour  on  the  raccoons'  track! 

Those  dogs  were  worth  their  weight  in  gold; 

What  pity  't  is  dogs  must  grow  old; 
What  pity  't  is  the  dog's  life  span 

Is  not  as  great  as  that  of  man. 

All  too  soon  as  he  comes  to  be 

The  pride  and  joy  of  his  master's  eye, 

He  's  reached  age  limit 
And  soon  must  die. 

Ah,  me!     It  's  cruel  fate's  decree. 

Dear  friends  and  the  noble  dogs  are  gone; 

Their  faces  we  no  more  shall  see 

Tho'  coons  in  Kinnicum  swamp  live  on. 


*  Col.  John  B.Clarke, 
t  Hiram  P.  Young. 

34 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

But  sometimes  in  the  hunting  days. 
When  leaves  are  rich  with  tints  of  gold, 

I  wander  there — no  dog — no  gun — 
And  dream  of  friends  and  days  of  old. 

I  call  the  roll,  and  none  appear. 

Thro'  autumn  air  a  whisper  comes, 
*The  hunters  and  their  dogs  are  near." 

ta^         v^         ti?*         ^^* 

'SQUOG  RIVER'S  SONG. 

Why  do  you  sing,  'Squog  Eiver, 

Eternal  notes  of  glee? 
Why  the  music  of  your  waves 

As  you  journey  to  the  sea? 

Do  you  hear  the  call  ahove  you 

Of  the  wood  bird,  clear  and  strong? 

And  from  your  pulsing  bosom 
Do  you  answer  with  a  song? 

Do  you  hear  the  night  wind  sighing 
O'er  the  meadows,  weird  and  drear? 

And  to  drown  its  weary  sorrow 
Do  you  lend  your  voice  of  cheer? 

Do  you  speak  the  praises  ever 

Of  Him  who  to  you  gave 
The  mystic,  sylphic  language 

Of  your  surging,  restless  wave? 


35 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Do  you  murmur  from  your  crystal  lips, 
So  sweet  and  yet  so  cold, 

The  glory  of  the  June-time  green 
Or  sheen  of  autumn  gold? 

If  not  for  these  thy  melody 

And  its  purling,  liquid  ring. 
Then  pause,  0  busy  river. 
And  tell  me  why  you  sing? 
Skptembee,  1907. 

t^^        t^t        1^1        t^* 


TO  MY  OLD  CLASSMATE,  EDWIN  A.  JONES. 

Dear  Friend: — The  quoted  lines  in  stanza  first  are  from 
your  letter  of  September  7,  1905. 

IS  IT  BEDTIME,  "HEER"? 

My  friend,  I  feel  it  more  and  more. 
As  months  and  years  pass  on, 
"It  's  getting  almost  bedtime. 
Some  have  already  gone." 

And  often  on  the  evening  air, 

A  whisper  comes  to  me; 
May  it  not  be  the  murmured  prayer 

Of  those  we  cannot  see? 

Ere  yet  the  western  skies  were  red, 
They  lit  their  lamps  and  went  to  bed. 

36 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

And  sometimes  in  my  musings. 
When  night  her  tent  has  spread, 

I  feel  their  shadows  near  me. 
Our  honored,  blessed  dead. 

And  maybe  they  are  calling. 

Dear  "Doe,"  and  "Ken,"  and  Fred, 

To  us,  who  now  are  weary, 
^TTour  lights  burn  low. 
Oh,  come  to  bed! 

"For  here  is  naught  of  sorrow. 
Or  lingering,  wasting  pain; 
We  rest  until  the  morrow, 
And  then  we  rise  again. 

"And  when  we  've  slept  the  night-time  thro* 
We  '11  hear  upon  the  hill. 
The  tone  of  'Vox  Clamantis,' 
Our  dear  old  chapel  bell." 

But,  "Herr,"  our  task  is  still  undone, 
The  fruit  ungathered  from  the  vine. 

We  must  heed  the  duty  call, 
Must  linger  in  the  line. 

So  here  tonight,  my  friend,  I  pledge 
And  drink  once  more  to  you. 

The  old,  old  love,  it  's  glass  to  glase: 
Work  while  the  skies  are  blue. 
May  25,  1908. 


37 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

TO    EDWIN    A.    JONES,    ESQ.,    MY    BELOVED    CLASS- 
MATE,  ON   HIS  BIRTHDAY. 

Dear  Herr,  I  drink  a  silent  toast, 
As  my  lone  glass  I  raise. 

You  have  my  heart;  't  is  thine  tonight, 
0  friend  of  college  days. 

Not  "hedtime"  yet,  altho'  the  west 
Shows  tint  of  sunset  gold. 

0  Allah,  grant  us  many  a  year 
Before  our  tents  we  fold. 
June  25,  1908. 

^5*       ti?*       t^*       ^* 

LOYALTY. 

"When  the  shades  of  sorrow  fall. 
And  gloom  hangs  o'er  him  like  a  pall, 
When  luck  tide  turns  against  your  friend, 
Be  faithful,  loyal  to  the  end. 

When  star  of  hope  fades  from  the  sky, 
And  ruin  and  despair  are  nigh. 
And  wreck  of  fortune  is  in  view, 
Oh,  then  be  loyal,  then  be  true. 

There  is  no  brand  of  royal  wine. 
No  diamond  from  an  Afric  mine. 
No  gold  from  Montezuma  land. 
More  valued  than  the  loyal  hand. 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

No  blessing  of  a  gracious  Lord, 
No  hope  held  forth  in  Sacred  Word, 
No  promise  of  a  blissful  Heaven, 
Worth  more  than  loyal  friendship  given. 

The  jewels  in  a  prince's  crown, 
May  glow  and  sparkle  in  the  light. 
But  when  the  shades  of  evening  fall, 
They  're  dead  and  darksome  as  the  night. 

But  loyalty  glows  on  for  aye; 
It  burns  in  darkness  as  in  day, 
'Tween  friend  and  friend  it  cannot  die, 
Fixed  as  Polaris  in  the  sky. 

On  honor's  graven  crest. 
Is  carved  an  emblem  grand; 
It  glows  in  steadfast  eye. 
And  thrills  in  clasp  of  hand. 

It  speaks  devotion  ever. 
To  him  who  is  your  friend, 
"Be  firm,  be  brave,  be  faithful, 
Be  loyal  to  the  end!" 


39 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


FREEM. 


[Scores  of  oldtimers,  who  in  years  agone  have  hunted 
through  Kinnieum  Swamp,  guided  and  cared  for  by  I.  F.  God- 
frey, familiarly  and  lovingly  called  Freem,  will  perhaps  appre- 
ciate these  lines,] 

Just  what  sincerity  can  be 
And  kindly  thought  for  fellowmen, 
True  in  mind  and  heart  as  steel. 
True  to  his  part  in  Nature's  scheme. 
That  's  Freem. 

Clean,  no  taint  of  wicked  world, 
Frank  and  open  as  flag  unfurled. 
Goodwill  the  motor  of  his  life. 
Propeller  stronger  far  than  steam. 
That 's  Freem. 

I  've  known  him  now  for  thirty  years. 
In  times  of  joy  and  times  of  tears; 
Acts,  words,  and  thoughts 
Just  what  to  all  the  world  they  seem. 
That  's  Freem. 

Together  we  tramped  thro'  wood  and  dell. 
Heard  the  red  fox  bark  and  the  wildcat  yell. 
Heard  the  dogs  on  the  track  when  the  game  was  nigh, 
Heard  the  raccoons  call  when  the  moon  was  high. 
Both  Freem  and  I. 

Lover  of  Nature  from  a  child. 
Of  open  land  and  forest  wild. 
Of  forms  of  life  that  in  them  teem 
By  daylight  and  by  pale  moonbeam. 
That 's  Freem. 

40 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Of  hon-homme  makeup  grand  and  stout, 
The  string  of  his  latch  is  always  out; 
With  gladsome,  welcome,  open  hand, 
Eeady  to  guide  as  a  gem  to  gleam, 
That  's  Freem. 

Old  boy,  we  cannot  spare  you  here. 
We  need  your  staunch  and  honest  heart, 
We  need  you  just  for  what  you  seem, — 
A  friend  to  count  on. 

Steadfast  Freem. 

Stay  with  us  thro'  the  darksome  night. 
Until  the  glorious  morning  light. 
Stay  with  us  till  we  cross  the  stream, 
And  ever  be  the  man  of  old, 
Be  Freem. 

t^       t^       ti5*       tS^ 

TO  JOE  BOWIE,  ON  HIS  SIXTY-NINTH  BIRTHDAY. 

We  drink  to  the  health  of  a  hero  tonight. 
To  a  man  in  a  thousand,  our  vows  we  shall  plight, 
Joe  Bowie,  who  stood  like  Mt.  William  Rock, 
And  gave  ball  for  ball  in  battle's  fierce  shock. 

Joe  Bowie,  I  remember  the  year  '62, 
When  you  marched  off  to  war  with  your  helmet  of  blue. 
When  you  swore  you  would  kill  every  rebel  you  saw 
Or  get  killed  yourself  in  the  tempest  of  war. 

By  the  broad  Shenandoah  you  helped  little  Phil 
Put  the  rebels  to  rout,  over  Opequan  Hill, 

41 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Where  bullets  flew  thickest,  Joe  Bowie  was  there; 
Where  shells  screamed  the  loudest,  Joe  Bowie  was  there. 
Said  Phil,  says  he,  "Joe,  how  's  ^t  going;  can  you  tell?" 
Said  Joe,  says  he,  "Phil,  we  are  giving  'em  hell." 

And  so  you  danced  through  that  grim  battle  quadrille. 
Till  no  Johnny  was  left  whose  blood  you  could  spill. 
And  then,  being  weary,  reclined  on  the  ground. 
Little  Phil  on  his  foaming  black  charger  rode  'round. 

Phil  took  off  his  hat  and  what  do  you  think. 

Drew  his  flask  from  his  pocket,  and  said,  "Joe,  have  a  drink." 

But,  friends,  I  presume  you  have  had  quite  enough, 

Of  what  you  will  call  a  cheap  sort  of  guff. 

The  rest  that  I  say  comes  straight  from  my  heart. 

A  better  man,  a  truer  friend,  we  none  of  us  shall  know. 

Than  he,  whose  hand  we  take  tonight,  and  say,  "God  bless  you, 

Joe!" 
God  bless  you,  Joe!    May  years  and  years  of  pleasure  come  and 

go. 
Before  your  friends  must  say  at  last,  "Farewell,  farewell,  dear 

Joe." 

t^w        t^*        t^*        t^^ 

AT    JOE    BOWIE'S     SEVENTIETH     BIRTHDAY    ANNI- 
VERSARY THIS  RESPONSE  WAS  GIVEN. 

Tho'  now  we  're  getting  a  little  old. 
We  '11  soon  be  gathered  within  the  fold. 
But  while  we  're  here  we  '11  live  like  men. 
And  be  to  each  other  as  we  've  always  been, 
Staunch  and  true  to  the  danger  point, 
Staunch  and  true  'till  our  lives  unjoint. 

42 


BALLADH  OF  THE  HILLS. 


TO  THE  WAR  VETERANS. 


[Delivered  at  their  field-day  meeting,  September  28,  1905.] 

Go  back  with  me  tRro'  mist  of  years, 
Years  of  gladness,  years  of  tears; 
Years  when  wrong  suppressed  the  right, 
Years  of  peace  and  joy  and  light. 

Years  when  freemen  heard  the  call 
To  rid  the  land  of  slavery's  thrall; 
Years  when  'neath  the  dark  war  cloud. 
The  loyal  hope  seemed  almost  vain; 
Years  when,  in  the  battle  storm, 
Your  comrades  fighting  at  your  side. 
Fell  to  the  ground  like  drops  of  rain. 

Years  when  boys  from  off  the  farm. 
And  from  the  counter  and  the  mill. 
Heard  Lincoln's  call  at  war's  alarm, 
And  sprang  in  line  the  ranks  to  fill. 

You  each  can  tell  a  battle  story. 
You  each  have  fought  on  fields  of  glory; 
You  all  have  won  a  lasting  fame. 
For  history  ne'er  forgets  brave  names. 
In  dreams  you  live  those  days  again; 
The  weary  march,  the  deadly  strife. 
The  army  scenes,  the  army  life. 

It 's  in  my  heart  to  call  the  roll 
Of  brave  men  by  the  score. 
But  it  would  be  an  idle  verse — 
It 's  oft  been  done  before. 

43 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Have  you  stood  on  "Little  Round  Top"? 
Seen  where  the  battle  flood 
Surged  grimly  up  the  rocky  heights, 
Then  ebbed  again  a  tide  of  blood? 

Seen  the  "copse  of  trees/'  "high-water  mark," 
Where  Pettigrew  and  Armstead  fell? 
Where  the  victorious  Union  cheer 
Eose  high  above  the  Rebel  yell? 

In  those  awful  July  days, 
When  the  whole  nation  bowed  in  prayer. 
There  are  men  upon  your  roll  today 
Who  fought  through  the  battle  there. 

Who  met  Pickett's  charging  column, 
Who  stormed  the  Devil's  Den, 
Who  stood  as  teeth  in  the  "Lion's  mouth," 
Which  devoured  Early's  men. 

'T  was  at  this  fated  battle  call, 
Vermonters  gave  their  fierce  reply. 
It  spoke  from  Doolin's  iron  face. 
And  Beach's  brave  blue  eye. 

Warriors  from  our  sister  state, 
You  have  our  hearts  to^ay; 
You  have  not  lost  your  fighting  zeal^ 
Tho'  now  your  locks  are  gray. 

Oh,  heroes!    I  can't  help  it. 
It 's  in  my  soul  to  cheer; 
And,  meter  or  no  meter, 
I  say,  "God  bless  you  here." 

44 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

It 's  just  this  way  I  always  feel; 
When  I  talk  with  men 
Who  've  caught  the  cannon's  breath. 
And  stood  up  against  cold  steel. 


One  was  not  at  Gettysburg,  yet  his  name 
Is  on  his  country's  scroll  of  fame; 
Wounded  on  the  battlefield — 
His  place  in  the  line  he  would  not  yield; 
When  ordered  by  his  captain  to  the  rear, 
He  bravely  gave  the  answer  back, 
"I  stay  with  the  colors;  I  stay  here." 

While  his  arm  had  strength  and  his  eye  had  sight 

That  man  was  on  the  field  to  fight, 

Hero  of  an  heroic  age — 

Let 's  give  three  cheers  for  David  Page! 

One  more  name,  a  friend  of  old, 

A  soldier  of  heroic  mould, 

"Crist"  Perry  stood  by  his  battery  gun; 

Howe'er  the  tide  of  battle  turned. 

He  never  flinched  or  flunked  or  run. 

I  \e  a  word  of  love  for  brave  old  "Crist," 

Near  flfty  years  it  's  been  my  joy 

To  shake  his  homy,  honest  fist; 

Your  health,  old  boy,  give  me  your  hand, 

There  's  honor  in  your  soldier  name, 

An  honor  little  less  than  fame. 


45 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Our  words  are  weaker  than  our  deeds, 
Tho'  't  is  little  we  can  do; 
But  in  our  hearts  a  knightly  homage 
Lingers  still  for  the  boys  of  '62. 

I  look  in  eyes  before  me  now 
A  little  dim  with  age, 
Which,  in  the  fighting  days  of  old, 
Glowed  fierce  with  battle  rage. 

The  fallow  furrows  have  been  turned. 
And  the  ripe  grain  gathered  in; 
But  still  you  stand  before  the  world 
As  brave  and  worthy  men. 

I  see  a  shattered  column. 
They  're  falling  day  by  day; 
Ere  long  the  last  man  in  the  line 
Will  drop  beside  the  way. 

Close  up  the  ranks,  nor  break  the  step. 
You  leave  sad  hearts  behind; 
But  comrades  of  your  army  days 
In  other  lands  you  '11  find. 

Dear  old  army!     Its  memory  yet 
Has  place  within  your  heart; 
As  in  the  sturdy  days  of  old. 
Of  your  lives  it  is  a  part. 

Its  tents  are  struck,  its  drums  are  still, 
No  campfires  blaze  upon  the  hill; 
Its  rescued  banners  wave  on  high, 
But  no  charging  line  gives  battle  cry. 

4S 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Good-night,  good-night,  may  the  stars  shine. bright 
When  the  evening  sun  goes  down; 
May  every  army  man  at  last 
Wear  Fame's  eternal  crown. 

^*        (,?•        ^5*        (^* 

WHAT   CHEER? 

[Delivered  before  the  Manchester  Historical  Society  Octo- 
ber 19,  1904.] 

"What  cheer?"  said  Chief  Canonicus, 

When  the  white  man's  boat  touched  shore; 
What  cheer  for  a  doomed  and  stricken  race. 
Whose  sun  would  rise  no  more? 

Their  fires  burned  bright,  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

Three  hundred  years  ago; 
But  few  are  left  to  tell  their  tale 

Of  bitterness  and  woe. 

The  white  man's  cheer  foreboded  ill. 

Deceit  and  gruesome  wrong; 
What  wonder  that  they  sought  revenge, 

When  they  had  suffered  long. 

The  soil  they  trod  was  theirs  by  right 

And  tenet  of  the  law; 
Who  blames  them  if  to  save  their  own 

They  lit  the  torch  of  war? 

They  lived  and  fougiit  within  the  shade 

Of  forests,  dark  and  dim; 
No  quarter  asked,  no  quarter  gave; 

'T  was  warfare,  fierce  and  grim. 

47 


BALLADS  OF  THE  RILLS. 

Thro'  centuries  of  flame  and  blood 

The  din  of  battle  raged; 
No  race  stood  longer  at  their  guns, 

Or  fiercer  fight  e'er  waged. 

From  tree  to  tree,  from  rock  to  rock. 

Their  lines  were  swept  along; 
Until  at  last  Pacific  waves 

Beat  time  to  their  death  song. 

I  don't  condone  their  savage  acts. 

Their  wrongs  I  will  allow; 
They  burned  their  victims  at  the  stake; 

We  hear  of  such  things  now. 

But  wisdom's  teachings  were  not  theirs; 

They  were  hidden  from  its  light; 
Their  ways  were  paths  of  darkness; 

They  were  shrouded  in  the  night. 

Not  for  the  world  would  I  wrongly  smirch 
The  fame  of  the  fathers  grand. 

But  still,  I  say,  by  direful  means 
They  gained  the  Indian's  land. 

Too  often  in  those  early  days 
Did  they  yield  their  simple  trust 

To  the  white  man's  artful  practice, 
Lured  by  his  rum  and  lust. 

And,  furthermore,  'twixt  race  and  race, 

Let  right  and  honor  win; 
Nor  blot  the  truth  from  history's  page. 

Because  of  their  copper  skin. 

48 


BALLADS  OF  TEE  BILLS. 

O'er  Narragansett's  surging  wave. 

One  darksome  night  each  year, 
CanonicuB  from  his  lonely  grave 

Sends  plaintive  call,  "What  cheer?" 

What  cheer  for  a  race  once  grand  in  strengtii. 

And  grand  in  its  domain; 
Now  buried  'neath  oblivion's  shade. 

Never  to  rise  again? 

But  few  are  left  of  all  the  tribes 
Who  played  that  grim  war  game, 

Though  rivers,  lakes,  and  mountain  peaks 
Still  bear  the  Indian  name. 

Tradition  kindly  lends  her  aid. 

Where  history  does  not. 
To  save  a  lost  and  ruined  race 

From  being  quite  forgot. 

Clans,  weird  and  strange,  in  friendship  true, 
In  rage  far  fiercer  than  the  beasts  they  slew; 

With  them  kind  deeds  forever  stood. 

While  wrongs  were  e'er  atoned  with  blood. 

And  who  shall  judge?    None  here  on  earth; 

But  in  the  courts  of  heaven 
The  red  man's  and  the  paleface's  sins 

By  Him  may  be  forgiven. 


49 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


THE  BACCHANALIAN  BULLFROG. 

Eesting  here  by  the  Badger  Spring, 

Where  't  is  Joy  for  me  to  stay, 
My  memory  turns  from  the  bubbling  pool 

Back  to  the  old-time  day, 

Back  to  the  time  when  the  Badger  home 

Gave  always  gladsome  cheer, 
Their  latchstring  out,  hearts  big  and  warm, 

No  stint  of  welcome  here. 

The  mug  of  cider  on  the  hearth. 

The  apples  in  the  pan. 
And  all  the  gifts  of  Mother  Earth 

Spoke  the  soul  of  a  goodly  man. 

A  man  of  many  virtues. 

On  him  no  shade  of  sin. 
Near  ninety  years  he  trod  these  hills. 

Lived  but  more  friends  to  win. 

He  won  them,  not  as  men  gain  fame. 

O'er  path  of  rock  and  thorn. 
But  with  gentle  spirit  of  a  child, 

To  nature's  manner  born. 

We  loved  to  hear  the  stories  quaint. 

As  told  by  this  dear  old  man; 
No  volume  ever  half  so  prized, 

As  lines  from  his  long  life  span. 


50 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

'T  was  here  beside  this  pure,  cool  spring, 

He  drew  from  memory's  log. 
And  told  in  reminiscent  words. 

The  story  of  the  frog. 

I  give  it  mostly  as  he  spoke, 

'T  is  better  so  to  tell. 
For  language  of  the  books  and  schools 

Would  sound  not  half  as  well. 

"I  Tum,"  he  said,  "this  'ere  old  spring 
My  mem'ry  alius  fills, 
With  thoughts  of  many  good  old  friends. 
Who  worked  upon  these  hills. 

'TTes,  George  was  one — your  father. 
Bill  Annis,  a  boy  named  'Hen'; 
They'd  swing  with  venom  at  the  scythe 
From  six  o'clock  till  ten. 

"Then  from  the  house  would  luncheon  come, 
(My  mem'ry  's  right,  I  think;) 
We  'd  sit  beside  the  spring  right  here. 
And  eat  and  rest  and  drink. 

'TTes,  drink,  I  said — did  you  ask  what? 
Not  water,  pocky  fool! 
But  Medford  Rum  from  out  the  jug, 
Placed  there  to  keep  it  cool. 

"One  day  we  'd  mowed  the  morning  thro'. 
And  then  I  had  'em  bring 
Their  scythes  and  rifles  and  set  down 
Right  here  beside  the  spring. 

51 


BALLADS   OF  THE  BILLS. 

''The  food  had  come,  and  in  the  pool, 
I  swan,  I  have  it  now, 
A  gallon  brown  stone  jug. 
And,  too,  upon  the  rock  right  there, 
A  half  pint  pewter  mug. 

"We  ate  our  lunch;  had  a  drink  all  round. 
Stood  up  to  whet  the  scythe. 
When  in  the  spring  clus  to  the  jug. 
As  sure  as  I  'm  alive, 

"Legs  half  as  long  as  yourn,  my  boy, 
Head  like  a  big  back  log. 
Eyes  the  size  of  a  whale-oil  lamp, 
Eose  up  an  old  bullfrog. 

"Bill  Annis  said  (I  'd  like  to  see  him, 
I  would,  I  van,  I  vum). 
He  said,  'Jest  for  a  little  sport, 
I  '11  give  the  frog  some  rum.' 

"  'T  was  done;  the  pocky  frog  seemed  glad, 
Took  kindly  to  Bill's  joke. 
Jumped  right  into  the  water  there, 
With  one  grand  bullfrog  croak. 

"Well,  well!     Will  wonders  never  cease? 
Next  day  beside  the  spring. 
We  sat  as  usual  for  a  rest. 

And  to  eat  what  wife  might  bring. 

"We  passed  the  jug  with  word  of  cheer. 
And,  boy,  what  do  you  think? 
That  same  old  bullfrog  hopped  up,  too. 
And  opened  his  mouth  for  a  drink. 

52 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"He  got  it,  and  I  tell  you  now. 
As  true  as  I  'm  a  man, 
Each  day  thro'  that  hot  July  month 
He  had  his  rum,  I  van. 

"And,  John,  soon  as  the  sun  was  down. 
And  dark  of  night  had  come, 
I  heard  right  here  that  bullfrog  call, 
'More  rum!     More  rum!  !     More  rum!  !  V" 

Now,  friends,  my  story  's  strictly  true. 

Of  this  you  may  be  sure; 
And  if  that  frog  is  still  alive. 

He  needs  the  Keeley  Cure. 

Dear  uncle,  he  has  long  been  gone. 

He  mingles  with  his  kind. 
And  none  of  all  the  loved  and  lost 

Left  purer  life  behind. 

The  maples  which  he  set  are  there, 

The  spring  flows  on  the  same, 
And  memories  fond  will  rest  for  aye 

O'er  Sargent  Badger's  name. 

^*       c?*       t(5*       t^ 

THE  OLD  MARCH  MEETING  DAY. 

[Eead  at  the  Amoskeag  Old  Home  Day,  August  26,  1905.] 

I  am  a  moss-back,  thoroughbred. 

From  the  sole  of  my  foot  to  the  top  of  my  head; 

I  believe  in  the  good,  old-fashioned  way 

Of  my  father's,  grandfather's,  and  great-grandfather's  day. 

53 


BALLADS   OF   THE  HILLS. 

But  if  the  moss  grows  on  my  back, 
A  little  powder  I  do  not  lack, 
And  with  it  I  mean  to  blaze  away 
At  certain  features  of  today. 

My  special  growl,  if  you  carefully  note, 

Is  about  the  manner  in  which  I  vote; 

But  as  tribute  first  from  my  heart  I  '11  say 

A  word  for  the  old-fashioned  March  Meeting  Day. 

The  old  March  Meeting,  with  its  fights  and  brawls, 
Its  oranges  and  cider,  and  pop-corn  balls; 
'T  was  there  I  ate  my  first  gingerbread  bar, 
'T  was  there  I  smoked  my  first  cigar. 

We  'd  travel  many  a  mile  today, 

To  see  an  election  in  the  same  old  way; 

To  hear  the  reading  of  the  call 

By  the  moderator  in  the  old  town  hall. 

To  see  thro'  tobacco-laden  air. 
The  dear  old  Parson  rise  in  prayer. 
And  pray  that  God  might  give  them  light 
To  walk  in  ways  of  truth  and  right. 

But  ways  of  right  in  politics 
Are  filled  with  thorny,  picked  sticks, 
And  oft  the  good  man's  fervent  prayer 
Fell  dead  on  the  murky  March  day  air. 

To  see  the  gathering  of  the  clans. 
Each  party  bound  to  elect  its  man. 

54 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

The  check-list  battle;  we  old  fellows  know 
A  word  would  often  bring  a  blow; 
But  still  would  right  sometimes  prevail, 
And  wrong  would  just  as  often  fail. 

Oh,  how  they  worked  in  the  cold  March  night 
On  jobs  that  would  not  bear  the  light. 
Here  was  a  man  to  stow  away. 
Here  a  patriot  must  have  his  pay. 

Perhaps  in  shape  of  a  five-dollar  bill. 
Or  a  barrel  of  flour  would  do  as  well; 
The  most  honest  souls  in  a  business  way. 
Would  play  cards  to  win  on  election  day. 

I  see  around  me  strong,  true  men. 
Whose  boast  through  life  has  always  been, 
That  their  word  was  good  as  their  bond  or  note, 
But  they  'd  storm  a  graveyard  to  get  a  vote. 

I  've  memory  of  a  sick,  old  man. 
Just  ready  to  ride  in  a  funeral  van. 
Borne  to  the  polls  to  save  the  day. 
Which  led  the  wag,  "Dud"  Lull,  to  say— 
''How  deep  was  the  frost  where  you  dug  him  up,  pray?" 

Before  the  day  of  grafts  and  rings. 

Voters  had  the  power  of  kings; 

Had  manly  ways  to  gain  their  ends. 

Their  weapons  were  ballots  in  free  men's  hands. 


&i 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

No  cumbersome  booth  and  candle-stick  game, 
The  devil's  invention  just  the  same; 
But  fair  and  open  stand-up  fight. 
Best  man  to  win  in  broad  daylight. 

No  flim-flam  bunco  of  Jack  and  straw; 
No  fake  Australian  ballot  law. 

How  is  it  now?     When  the  humble  voter 
Goes  to  the  polls,  if  haply  his  name  is  on  the  roll, 
He  must  pass  a  cordon  through  gates  and  bars; 
Pass  policemen  with  billies  and  stars. 

And  be  led  like  a  donkey 

To  a  dim-lighted  stall. 

Grope  like  a  blind  man. 

And  be  mighty  lucky  if  he  votes  at  all. 

Does  not  this  monster,  without  color  or  mark. 
Which  never  was  listed  in  Noah's  ark, 
No  kind  of  animal,  fish  or  fowl, 
Deserve  a  moss-back's  savage  growl? 

Of  the  good  old  times  when  majority  ruled. 
The  memories  we  have  stored; 
And  often  they  would  vote  three  days 
Before  the  best  men  scored. 

The  horse-shed  dicker;  the  swapping  knives; 
The  wrestling  bout  when  men  staked  their  lives 
On  who  would  stand  or  who  would  fall, 
Tn  the  ring  in  front  of  the  old  Town  Hall. 

66 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

The  booth  where  cider,  strong  and  cold, 
Between  the  heats  was  always  sold; 
Which  sometimes  made  them  lose  their  way, 
Going  home  Town  Meeting  Day. 

The  cradle  of  historic  names; 
Here  Franklin  Pierce  first  gained  his  fame; 
Here  Billy  Chandler  learned  to  fight. 
And  Daniel  Webster  rose  to  might. 

"Cy"  Sulloway,  grand  as  he  is  tall. 
Learned  politics  in  the  old  Town  Hall; 
Him  the  Veterans,  in  their  loving  way, 
Think  the  biggest  man  in  the  world  today. 

Perhaps  they  are  not  wholly  right, 
But  in  the  short  and  in  the  long, 
Perhaps  they  are  not  wholly  Avrong. 

Hen  Putney  learned  to  catch  hot  flies, 

And  pitch  curved  ball 

With  the  bulldog  pluck  of  a  center  rush, 

Which  has  stood  him  well 

In  many  a  game  of  Put  and  call, 

At  the  old  Town  Meeting  in  Dunbarton  Hall. 

Oh,  the  good  old  voting,  fighting  days! 
When  men  were  not  caged  and  stalled 
Like  sheep  in  a  pen! 

"We  have  them  now,"  do  you  reply? 
We  have  a  moon  left  in  the  sky; 
And  men  can  argue  if  they  please, 
The  moon  is  but  a  big,  green  cheese, 
And  can  prove  it  just  as  clear. 
As  that  old-time  voting  days  are  here. 

57 


BALLADS   OF  THE  HILLS. 

Say  a  star  is  brighter  than  the  sun; 
That  rivers  back  to  the  hills  can  run; 
But  don't  compare,  I  beg  and  pray. 
The  old-time  fair  and  open  way 
With  the  voting  shambles  of  today. 

Oh,  for  the  times  of  Tilden  and  Hendricks! 
Before  politics  had  this  vermiform  appendix! 
Alas!  for  Franklin  Pierce's  day, 
Jeff  Davis  in  the  Cabinet,  and  the  devil  to  pay! 

Now,  I  may  be  stepping  on  someone's  toes; 
I  may  be  mobbed,  God  only  knows; 
But  I  stand  here,  with  heart  that  's  brave, 
And  speak  old  memories  to  save 

Of  those  who  've  gone  and  left  a  name, 
Embalmed  in  Honor's  sacred  Fame; 
Who  knew  the  ways  of  truth  and  right, 
And  kept  them  as  they  had  the  light. 

Viewed  from  this  Twentieth  Century  height, 
Perhaps,  the  new  plan  may  be  right; 
Perchance,  the  still  remaining  few. 
Who  prefer  the  old  scheme  to  the  new. 

Are  out  of  place  and  out  of  tune. 
As  snowbanks  in  the  month  of  June; 
But  still  I  say,  in  my  humble  way. 
Call  back  the  old  March  Meeting  Day. 

Oh!  there  are  curses  on  our  land. 

The  potato  bug  on  every  hand, 

A  moth  which  makes  us  scratch  and  swear. 

With  but  a  morsel  of  its  hair. 

58 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

A  ballot  system  on  such  a  plan. 
As  to  cause  a  pious  Godly  man 
To  speak  profanely  in  His  sight, 
For  fear  he  has  not  marked  it  right, 
And  the  counters  will  use  it  for  a  kite. 

This  is  a  moss-back's  final  growl; 
Take  it  like  weafher,  fair  or  foul; 
Take  it  and  feel  there  's  no  alarm; 
If  it  does  no  good,  it  will  do  no  harm. 

I  see  a  future  for  us  all, 

A  bright  and  golden  way; 

Our  names  all  checked,  our  votes  all  cast, 

As  in  old  March  Meeting  days. 

Where  the  rich  man  and  the  poor  man 
Stand  equal,  side  by  side; 
Heaven's  blessing  on  them  all; 
To  them  God's  grace  betide. 


Old  Amoskeag,  your  history 
Is  a  record  of  the  brave; 
And  every  night  the  sunset  rays 
Glint  John  Stark's  humble  grave. 

The  banners  in  your  churchyard. 
Tell  where  the  heroes  lie; 
Oh,  may  they  wave  forever. 
And  your  brave  names  never  die! 


59 


BALLADS   OF  THE  HILLS. 

Old  Amoskeag,  your  star  arose 
Two  centuries  ago; 
Nor  yet  in  all  the  passing  years, 
Has  its  bright  light  ceased  to  glow. 

While  the  Queen  City  on  her  throne 
Gains  honors  rich  and  fast. 
Oh,  may  she  cherish  more  and  more, 
The  mother  of  her  past. 

t^*        f^        t^        ^* 

A  HAMMOCK  REVERY. 

Within  my  hammock  swi^ging, 
'Neath  shade  of  the  poplar  tree. 

While  summer  winds  from  off  the  hills 
Blow  softly  over  me, 

I  yield  myself  to  Fancy, 

Let  Memory  have  her  sway. 

And  in  their  sweet  companionship. 
Dream  on  the  livelong  day. 

I  muse  and  muse; 

I  dream  and  dream; 
And  in  their  magic,  subtle  spell, 

Another  than  myself  I  seem. 

My  dreaming  is  of  boyish  life, 

Existence  free  from  toil  and  strife; 

Of  boyish  hopes  and  boyish  fears; 
All,  all  have  vanished  in  the  years. 


60 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Friends  and  foes,  and  cares  and  joys. 
Teachers,  lovers,  girls,  and  boys. 

Gone  the  pleasures  and  the  tears. 
Vanished,  vanished  in  the  years. 

And  will  they  e'er  come  back  again. 
Across  Time's  dark  and  dreary  plain? 

Ah,  no!     They  're  buried  from  our  sight. 
Wrapped  in  the  Past's  eternal  night. 

^*         c5*         v^         ti5* 

THE  MANITO. 

You  who  worship  in  cathedrals, 

'xsTeath  minaret  and  dome. 
Who  in  cloistered  cell  and  convent 

Find  solace  and  a  home, 

Whose  life  is  in  the  litany. 

And  in  masses  chanted  low. 
Do  yoH  know  the  legend  story 

Of  the  Indian  Manito? 

You  who  go  on  Sabbath  mornings 
To  the  Christian  house  of  prayer. 

And  breathe  the  heavenly  incense 
Of  the  solemn  Sunday  air. 

Who  list  to  righteous  teachings. 
And  the  ways  of  goodness  know. 

Has  it  ever  once  been  taught  you 
Of  the  Indian  Manito? 


61 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

When  you  ramble  in  the  summer, 

Where  idle  fancy  wills, 
View  the  glory  of  the  sunset 

Behind  the  templed  hills. 

And  the  grandeur  of  the  morning. 
With  its  sunrise,  golden  glow. 

You  see  the  blessing  and  the  smile 
Of  the  Indian  Manito. 

Oh,  children  of  a  gilded  age! 

When  wisdom's  fountains  flow, 
Do  you  read  as  clear  on  Nature's  page 

A3  he  who  worshiped  Manito? 

Oh,  you,  who  dwell  in  castles, 
And  count  your  hoarded  gold. 

And  build  your  massive  churches, 
Have  you  ever  heard  it  told 

How  the  red  men  in  the  forest. 

Unlettered,  poor  and  low. 
Saw  in  Nature's  cosmic  forces 

Their  God,  the  Manito? 

Oh,  Manito!     Great  Manito! 

God  of  the  Indian  wild! 
His  soul  was  yours;  he  worshiped  you; 

He  was  your  humble  child. 

He  trusted  that  when  life  was  o'er, 
And  he  had  passed  the  bound. 

You  'd  welcome  him  to  peace  at  last. 
In  the  happy  hunting  ground. 

62 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

A  simple  faith. 

By  wild  hearts  given. 
But  voices  sometimes  say  to  me. 

That  faith  gained  promise  sure  of  Heaven. 

What,  though  we  differ  in  our  views. 

And  differ  in  our  creed. 
The  Blessed  One,  who  rules  above. 

Supplies  to  each  his  need. 

And  though  He  hear  the  wild  man  call. 

Or  rich  and  noble  lord. 
He  is  the  same  to  one  and  all. 

The  Manito,  the  God. 

4?*         ^*         ^*         ^^ 

THE  VERMONTERS'  JOKE  AND  OTHER  VERSES. 

[Read  at  War  Veterans'  Campfire,  March  2,  1905.] 

A  Jersey  regiment  brigaded 

With  a  camp  of  Vermont  Yanks, 

Whose  mutton  in  the  dark  they  'd  take, 
And  leave  not  even  shanks. 

So  one  black  night,  't  was  rigged  and  planned. 
That  when  they  played  the  hog. 

They  should  abstract,  not  tender  lamb, 
But  the  carcass  of  a  dog. 

The  scheme  worked  well,  the  meat  was  swiped. 
And  fried,  and  boiled,  and  stewed: 

The  Jersey  boys  at  once  set  to. 
And  chewed,  and  chewed,  and  chewed. 

63 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

And  as  they  worked  their  weary  jaws. 
They  said,  with  many  a  damn, 
"Those  cussed  Vermont  boys  have  killed, 
And  we  stole  the  'Derby  ram.'  " 

But  they  gulped  it  down  with  wince  and  grin. 

And  you  can  safely  bet, 
That  chunks  of  that  tough  bull-dog  steak 

Are  in  their  stomachs  yet. 

Oh,  how  the  Vermont  boys  would  yell, 

And  raise  a  hue  and  cry. 
And  bark  like  curs,  and  bay  like  hounds, 

When  the  Jersey  line  marched  by. 

Do  you  ask,  "Is  this  a  fable. 

Is  it  written  on  the  log?" 
I  was  not  there,  but  Doolin  was, 

And  I  think  he  killed  the  dog. 


Soldiers  of  the  veteran  legion, 

Your  lives  are  as  a  story  told; 
And  though  in  service  many  years, 

Your  loyal  hearts  have  not  grown  cold. 

Your  sabers  may  be  rusted, 

And  in  march  your  step  be  slow. 

But  still  you  have  the  battle  fervor, 
As  in  days  of  long  ago. 


64 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

As  you  live  your  campaigns  over. 

And  heroic  deeds  renew, 
You  seem  today  the  same  young  heroes, 

That  you  were  in  '62. 

As  you  stood  in  battle  column. 
Waiting  hostile  cannon's  breath, 

So  today  you  still  are  waiting, 
For  the  grim  old  foeman.  Death. 

What 's  the  need  of  e'er  repining. 
What  's  the  use  to  shed  a  tear 

For  old  comrades?    They  are  near  you; 
List,  and  you  '11  their  voices  hear! 

Hear  them  cheer  as  in  the  old  time, 

When  in  days  of  battle  hell, 
They  beat  back  the  charging  column. 

With  its  savage  Rebel  yell. 

Do  you  dream,  0  veteran  soldiers. 
When  the  night  winds  o'er  you  blow. 

Of  the  marching  and  the  fighting, 
More  than  forty  years  ago? 

Of  the  elbow  touch  of  comrades. 
Who  charged  with  you  up  the  hill. 

To  rest  upon  the  field  forever. 
Honored  soldiers'  graves  to  fill? 

Does  the  same  old  frenzy  seize  you. 
As  when  you  saw  the  brave  boys  fall. 

Struck  by  canister  and  grape  shot, 
Or  by  Eebel  minie  ball? 

'  r  65 


BALLADS   OF  THE  HILLS. 

Do  you  rally  round  the  colors, 

Swear  that  every  man  shall  die, 
Before  the  Eebel  host  shall  capture, 

Dear  "Old  Glory"  of  the  sky? 

Dear  "Old  Glory,"  gaze  upon  it, 

For  you  saved  its  sacred  fold; 
And  its  constellation  's  larger 

Than  it  was  in  days  of  old. 

Tell  your  hoys  to  guard  it  bravely. 

For  your  battle  days  are  o'er; 
Over  worthy  sons  of  heroes. 

It  shall  float  forever  more. 

From  Atlantic  in  the  Eastward, 

Far  across  Pacific  sea. 
It  shall  wave  a  blessed  emblem. 

Glorious  banner  of  the  free. 

Veterans,  you  have  won  your  medals. 
In  the  cause  of  truth  and  right; 

Wear  them  proudly  on  your  bosoms, 
Till  the  bugle  sounds  "Lights  out." — Good-night. 

^•'        ^5^        %5*        ft?* 

THE  TRIUMPH   OF  THE  ANGLO-SAXON  RACE. 

[Delivered  at  the  one-hundredth  anniversary  of  the  open- 
ing of  the  Amoskeag  canal.] 

What  epochs  fill  the  path  of  time! 

How  swift  they  came  in  their  silent  flight! 
Nations  have  been  born  in  a  day. 

And  disappeared  in  a  single  night. 

66 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HTLL8. 

A  man  has  risen  to  a  throne. 

Smote  kingdoms  with  resistless  power, 
But  died  an  exile,  poor,  alone. 

His  wreck  the  work  of  a  single  hour. 

Fortuna  seems  the  queen  of  fate. 
She  holds  us  at  her  beck  and  call. 

On  some  she  showers  promise  grand, 
While  some  by  her  decree  must  fall. 

'T  is  of  a  people  I  would  sing, 
And  tell  their  story  here  tonight, 

Loyal,  steadfast,  sturdy,  brave, 

Unconquered  in  the  flood  of  years. 

They  've  held  their  course. 
To  place  of  glory  and  of  might. 

Wherever  genius'  flashing  ray 

Beams  like  a  bright  star  from  on  high, 
There  in  its  cheering,  gladsome  glow. 

As  ages  come  and  ages  go. 
Their  native  emblems  grace  the  sky. 

A  thousand  years  in  the  march  of  time. 
They  've  held  their  steady  onward  pace. 

Their  faces  ever  to  the  fore, 

The  blue-eyed  Anglo-Saxon  race. 

Not  'neath  boasted  burnished  crest, 

Or  with  heraldry's  grim  pride. 
But  with  the  sjrmbols  of  their  faith. 

The  church  and  schoolhouse,  side  by  side. 


67 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Where'er  their  native  songs  are  heard, 
And  where  the  Saxon  banners  call, 

There  's  freedom,  richest  gift  of  God, 
And  peace  her  blessings  showers  on  all. 

E'er  advancing,  and  achieving, 
No  cease  of  labor,  and  no  rest; 

Their  column  moving  onward,  onward. 
Follows  the  star  of  empire  west. 

That  star  the  signal  of  their  will. 

The  index  light  of  Destiny, 
Moving,  beaming,  leading,  guiding, 

It  never  sinks  behind  the  hill. 

There  's  giant  strength  in  his  sturdy  arm, 
The  flash  of  genius  in  his  mind. 

There  's  valor  in  the  Saxon  heart, 
He  leaves  the  world  behind. 

In  the  conflicts  of  the  ages, 
In  the  test  of  right  and  wrong. 

Courage,  reason,  virtue,  manhood. 
Have  made  the  Saxon  column  strong. 

O'er  the  flood  of  time  and  fortune, 

Their  ships  have  sailed  with  treasure  rare. 

Cargoes  richer  than  from  India, 

Ever  coming,  ever  going. 

What,  tho'  winds  blew  ill  or  fair! 

Stores  of  learning,  ripe,  abundant, 
Plucked  from  wisdom's  fruited  tree. 

Fleets  of  power,  stronger,  grander, 
Than  e'er  floated  on  the  sea. 


68 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Lessons  that  the  other  nations 

Have  garnered  from  the  sturdy  vine, 

'Til  now  the  rights  of  man  are  sacred. 
In  far  Cathaj^  and  on  the  Ehine. 

Listen  as  your  thoughts  turn  backward 
O'er  the  works  that  they  have  done. 

You  will  hear  their  legions  cheering, 
And  their  sentry's  challenge  given, 

And  the  echo  of  their  footsteps. 

From  the  fields  that  they  have  won. 

View  the  cities  they  have  builded. 
View  their  banners  floating  free. 

From  Britannia  in  the  eastward, 
Far  across  Pacific  sea. 

Thro'  the  vista  of  the  ages. 

Comes  the  tocsin,  loud  and  clear. 

All  along  the  line  of  progress, 
"The  Anglo-Saxon  race  are  here." 

Where'er  on  history's  page  is  told 
The  triumph  of  the  right  and  good. 

In  forum  or  on  battlefield. 

There  sparkles  Anglo-Saxon  blood. 

Ever  planning,  ever  doing. 
First  and  foremost  in  the  van; 

Theirs  to  act  and  theirs  to  reason. 
Theirs  to  guard  the  rights  of  man. 

69 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

From  that  far-off  eastern  country, 
From  that  dim  and  misty  age, 

Came  the  race,  that  's  made  a  story 
Proud  and  grand  on  history's  page. 

Living  in  this  brilliant  era. 

In  the  Twentieth  Century  span, 
Our  lives  seem  rounded,  nobler,  grander. 
With  more  love  for  one  another. 
More  help  for  our  fellow  man. 

We  clearer  read  the  golden  text, 
We  hear  its  precepts  say, 
"Extend  the  kindly,  friendly  hand, 
Be  just  and  true  for  aye." 

No  word  e'er  spoken  now  or  then, 

Nobler,  truer,  more  Divine 
Than  the  blessed  salutation, 

"Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 

This  sentiment  must  have  held  his  heart. 
When  as  the  savage  tide  of  war 

Broke  fierce  o'er  Korea's  fated  hill. 

Our  Anglo-Saxon  President 

Said  to  the  raging  waves,  "Be  still." 

Eaised  his  hand,  bade  the  storm  to  cease, 
Breathed  again  the  immortal  words, 
"Let  us  have  peace. 
Let  us  have  peace." 

70 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Ceased  the  clouds  of  war  to  thunder. 
Ebbed  the  battle's  angry  flood; 

No  more  the  fervid  carnage  fever. 
No  more  the  cannons'  lips  drank  blood. 

Such  act  as  that  indeed  must  stand 

Forever  on  historic  page. 
Expression  beautiful  and  grand, 
Of  the  land  of  the  church  and  schoolhouse. 

Fit  climax  of  our  Christian  age. 

Words  worthy  of  the  speaker. 

Worthy  of  his  exalted  place. 
Worthy  of  his  mother  tongue. 

And  worthy  of  his  race! 

Go  back  with  me  a  hundred  years, 

View  the  fathers'  .works  in  the  days  of  old! 
Their  forces  linger  with  us  still, 
Tho'  now  the  builders  are  far  away, 
Beyond  the  sunset's  sheen  of  gold. 

The  Indian,  who  scaled  yon  falls. 

In  search  of  prey. 
To  keep  the  fangs  of  the  hunger-wolf  away, 

Had  scarcely  vanished  o'er  the  hills. 
Ere  broke  upon  the  virgin  land 

The  light  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  day. 

They  bound  the  river  torrent, 

Subdued  it  to  their  will; 
Eeared  first  the  church  and  schoolhouse. 

And  then  they  built  the  mill. 

71 


BALLADS   OF  THE  HILLS. 

Five  hundred  thousand  spindles, 
Where  once  the  red  man  wooed; 

Grand  structures,  massive  buildings; 

Engines  pulsing,  throbbing,  driving, 
Where  the  humble  wigwam  stood. 

While  down  our  broad,  grand  Appian  way 

Are  coming,  coming  every  day, 
Eich  tribute  of  the  loom  and  land, 
Planned  by  the  Anglo-Saxon  brain. 
And  wrought  by  guidance  of  his  hand. 


Monuments  and  mausoleums,  statues  in  the  halls 
of  fame. 

Shall  stand  in  lasting  honor 
To  the  Anglo-Saxon  name; 
Ours  their  ideals,  ours  their  teachings, 

These  the  legacy  they  gave. 
Their  story  grand,  their  race  and  tongue, 

Our  glory  't  is  to  save. 

The  vigor  of  their  manhood. 

The  strength  of  nerve  and  brain. 
The  blood  the  centuries  gave  us, 

Thro'  the  asfes  shall  remain. 


72 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


THE  REV.  S.  C.  KIMBALL. 


[Dedicated  to  our  old-time  Pastor,  Teacher  and  Friend,  on 
his  seventieth  birthday,  recalling  the  old  game  of  "Round 
Ball/'] 

"Come,  boys,  let  's  rally  once  again!" 

I  hear  our  teacher  call; 
"Choose  sides,  coats  off,  get  ready  there, 
A  royal  game  of  ball!" 
No  gaudy  uniform;  few  rules; 

Xo  czarish  umpire  man; 
But  bat  the  sphere  across  the  yard, 

And  tally  if  you  can; 
No  call  of  fouls; 

'T  was  hit  or  miss  and  heaps  of  noise  and  fun, 
I  'd  give  my  hat  once  more  to  see 
My  friend,  the  parson,  run. 

For  tho'  the  seal  of  honesty 

Was  on  his  manly  face. 
Despite  the  eighth  commandment. 

He  often  stole — a  base. 

When  up  against  a  pitcher, 

(Now  mind,  my  story  's  pat) 
He  'd  smite  and  sway  with  all  his  might; 

He  was  awful  at  a  bat. 

And  some  still  must  remember 

That  scene  of  jolly  fun. 
When  he  shouted  to  Ed  Everett, 

"Eun,  Bemus!    Run!    Run!     RUN!!" 

73 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Those  glad  events  of  schooldays 
Deep  in  our  hearts  are  burned. 

To  linger  ever  bright  and  clear 
Until  the  glass  is  turned. 

Oh,  friend,  how  fondly  do  we  cling 

To  memories  of  the  old; 
How  thro'  the  past  they  flash  and  glow 

Like  sheen  of  burnished  gold. 

How  oft  dear  faces  come  again. 
Our  teachers  grand  and  true, 

The  girls  we  loved  as  schoolboys  will, 
"Hatt,"  Nettie,  Jen,  and  "Sue." 

The  maples  still  are  standing. 

The  river  sings  below. 
The  dear  old  schoolhouse  just  the  same 

As  forty  years  ago. 

And  should  you  speak  to  us  again, 
With  voice  of  hope  and  cheer, 

Tho'  some  have  fallen  by  the  way. 
Perhaps  we  all  would  hear. 

The  pulpit  steps  were  narrow. 
But  each  was  a  step  of  love; 

So  is  it  with  life's  pathway, 
Peace,  rest,  and  joy  above. 

As  we  see  but  days  before  us, 
And  count  that  years  have  gone, 

Still  more  we  feel  God  o'er  us. 
We  know  He  '11  guide  us  on. 

74 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

So  here  a  toast  I  offer, 

With  glass  filled  to  the  brim. 

Dipped  from  Piscataquog's  deep  pool. 
Where  I  loved  to  fish  and  swim. 

That  dear  old  river  of  the  hills. 
What  recks  it  of  life's  cares  or  ills! 

Singing  e'er  the  song  of  joy 
I  heard  when  but  a  barefoot  boy. 

Age  has  its  joys,  its  blessings. 
Its  friendships,  tried  and  true; 

On  this  your  natal  morning 
I  pledge  them  all  to  you! 
July  21,  1908. 

THE  SALE  OF  THE  COLBY  FARM. 

The  dear  old  farm  at  last  is  sold; 

Sold  for  a  paltry  sum  of  gold; 
Sold  at  a  bargain;  sold  for  gain; 

And  naught  but  memories  now  remain. 

The  home  where  every  virtue  grew. 
Where  those  who,  ever  good  and  true. 

To  sick  and  weary  comfort  gave. 
Is  now  as  silent  as  a  grave. 

The  broad  and  spacious,  cheery  hall. 
Where  kindly  welcome  greeted  all. 

The  pallid  moonbeam  fills  at  night 
With  dreary,  dreamy,  ghostly  light. 

75 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

As  I  sit  here,  thinking,  thinking, 

In  the  twilight's  solemn  gloam. 
Musing,  musing,  dreaming,  dreaming. 

Of  the  dear  old  farmhouse  home. 

Of  the  friends  who  crossed  its  threshold 

In  the  happy  days  of  yore, 
Vanished  now  beyond  the  hilltops. 

To  return  to  it  no  more; 

Of  the  singing  'neath  the  poplars. 
When  the  summer  moon  was  high, 

I  weep  for  bonds  of  friendship  broken. 
When  I  say,  "Old  farm,  good-bye." 

c?*  (,5*  ^?*  ^* 

OLD  SHABBAGEE! 

[To  Dr.  E.  H.  Currier.     I  write  of  Hermit  Bill  of  Shab- 
bagee.     In  hyperbole.] 

Old  Shabbagee!  a  homely  term. 

And  where  it  came  from  I  can't  see. 

But,  Doc,  there  's  something  in  the  name 
That  's  dear  to  you  and  me. 

No  romance  hangs  about  the  place. 

No  flowers  there  but  pine  saliva. 
And  3Tt  is  heard  the  wildcat's  song 

And  cooing  of  stake-driver. 

Jack  Eabbit  builds  his  nest  on  high. 
The  woodchuck  floats  on  feathered  wing. 

The  hedgehog's  carol  greets  the  eye, 
And  on  the  hills  the  bull-pouts  sing. 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

At  least,  so  said  the  hermit  Bill, 

One  morning  as  he  came  to  me, 
With  empty  jug  and  skin  well  filled, — 

He  'd  spent  the  night  in  Shabbagee. 

Not  on  a  downy,  feathered  cot. 

Where  peaceful  visions  o'er  one  beam. 

But  'neath  Mt,  Misery's  rocky  quilt. 

Where  gay  bull-thistles  made  him  scream. 

And  join  his  voice  in  chorus  fine. 
With  lusty  tree-toads'  dulcet  chime. 

Said  Bill,  "There  's  angels  all  around; 
I  heard  them  singing  o'er  my  bed." 
"Oh,  no,"  said  I,  "'t  was  but  a  pair 

Of  'squitoes  sighing  round  your  head." 

Said  Bill,  "There  's  grizzlies  over  there; 

I  saw  one  dancing  on  a  log." 
Said  I,  "You  flabbergasted  loon, 

'T  was  Wendall  Khitcomb's  Berkshire  hog." 

Said  Bill,  "There  's  snakes  and  terrapin. 
And  'farrer'   crows   with   henhawks  pair." 

Another  drink  and  Bill  would  see 
Mud  turtles  flying  through  the  air. 

In  dear,  romantic  Shabbagee, 

Said  Bill,  "I  have  my  every  wish, 

No  need  for  me  to  strive  or  toil, 
'Cause  seraphs  ever  mix  my  grog 

And  lobsters  grow  on  'Windsor's  boil,' 
The  proudest  peak  in  Shabbagee." 

77 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

One  morning  in  the  long  ago 

They  started  out,  some  four  or  three,     • 
To  run  the  lines  and  fix  the  bounds 

Of  loved  and  classic  Shabbagee. 

'T  was  when  Maul  Porrill  kept  the  inn, — 
To  all  the  world  he  bore  good  will, — 

They  set  the  compass  on  his  steps 
Sou'-east-by-sou'  from  old  Pork  Hill. 

Said  Bill,  "-You  have  not  got  it  right; 

The  sight§  are  wrong;  they  don't  combine. 
Now,  Maul,  just  pass  the  jug  once  more, 

And  we  will  make  a  true  r(h)um(b)  line." 

Maul  passed  the  jug,  and  you  may  think 
The  compass  worked  just  like  a  charm 

They  landed  up  this  side  the  "Minks," 
Just  one  mile  from  Men  Herrick's  farm. 

Bill  set  a  stone — it  's  there  today — 
The  center  point  of  Shabbagee. 

Now,  Doc,  my  meter  jon  may  smite; 

You  may  abuse  my  diction. 
But  still  I  raise  the  question  grave, 

Is  truth  as  strange  as  fiction? 

But,  Ed,  a  sober  word  or  two. 

The  world  is  getting  old; 
Poor  Bill  is  gone,  and  soon  like  his 

Our  story  will  be  told. 

If  we  can't  leave  a  hero  tale 

For  all  the  world  to  see. 
We  '11  spread  good  cheer  among  the  boys. 

Like  Bill  of  Shabbagee. 

78 


^  J 


g  » 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


THE  PINES. 

When  western  winds  are  blowing, 
And  the  summer  eve  is  nigh, 

I  love  to  linger  near  the  pines 
And  hear  their  murmuring  sigh. 

In  accents  almost  human. 

In  cadence  soft  and  low, 
They  seem  to  tell  their  story 

When  the  vesper  breezes  blow. 

In  the  gloaming  of  the  twilight. 

As  silent  shadows  fall, 
My  musing  is  in  harmony 

With  the  west  wind's  whispered  call. 

And  my  heart  beats  out  a  memory  chord, 

A  story  of  "Lang  Syne," 
When  I  lived  and  loved  beneath  the  shade 

Of  the  dark  and  sombre  pine. 

On  the  hill  and  in  the  valley. 

Wherever  it  is  seen, 
Its  solemn  beauty  lingers 

With  its  foliage  ever  green. 

I  have  seen  it  in  its  glory, 

When  it  crowned  the  stately  hills, 

With  its  never  fading  verdure, 
Like  His  promise  of  goodwill. 

79 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Seen  the  pine  tree  in  December, 

In  the  flashing  winter  light, 
Arrayed  in  snowy  garments 

As  for  a  wedding  night. 

Seen  the  pine  tree  in  the  autumn, 
When  its  plumes  of  nodding  cones, 

Beat  time  in  gentle  measure 
To  its  softly  murmuring  tones. 

I  've  wandered  far  in  a  weary  world. 

O'er  rough  and  troubled  lines, 
But  solace  always  comes  to  me 

With  the  music  of  the  pines. 

In  pensive  mood  I  often  sit 

And  sip  of  memory's  wine. 
And  dream  of  loved  ones  sleeping  now 

Beneath  the  stately  pine. 

With  reverent  heart  I  listen 

To  its  m^^^murings  o'er  my  head, 

As  it  chants  a  plaintive  requiem 
Above  my  blessed  dead. 

^*         t^*         t^*         t^^ 

DID  SHE  THINK? 

Did  she  think  when  she  gave  me  back  the  ring 
Of  the  songs  of  love  we  used  to  sing? 

Of  the  fervid  pressure  of  the  hand. 

As  we  walked  in  evening  shadows  grand? 

80 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Of  the  plans  that  each  to  each  would  tell 
Ere  Mammon's  charm  upon  her  fell? 

Tonight,  on  desolation's  brink, 

I  wonder  does  she  think?  does  she  think? 

Charmed  by  the  stories  he  could  tell 
Of  wealth  and  title,  false  as  hell, 

Tho'  my  heart  was  hers,  she  did  not  shrink; 
But  now  in  her  ruin,  does  she  not  think? 

Give  back  to  me  again  your  love. 

And  while  the  starlight  glows  above. 

And  while  the  sunlight  gladdens  day. 
My  life  is  yours,  yours  mine  for  aye. 

Oh,  rose  of  beauty,  bloom  again! 
Oh,  darkened  life,  forget  the  pain! 

In  gladsome  light  you  still  may  live; 
I  can  forgive;  I  can  forgive. 

Fond  memory's  nectar  each  will  drink, 
And  cease  to  think,  and  cease  to  think. 

^*         ^w         ^*  t^^ 

TRIBUTE  TO  LOUIS  BELL  POST. 

[Bead  at  the  dedication  of  the  Grand  Army  Hall.] 

When  Lincoln  turned  his  pleading  eyes, 
And  beckoned  to  the  North, 

Her  loyal  sons  from  every  hill. 
In  myriads  sprang  forth. 

81 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

And  thus  they  gave  their  answer, 

The  marching  lines  along, 
"We  're  coming.  Father  Abraham, 

Three  hundred  thousand  strong." 

They  came  from  every  hamlet. 
From  the  farm  and  from  the  town. 

With  resolution,  strong  and  firm. 
To  put  rebellion  down. 

There  were  boys  who  left  their  mothers, 
There  were  husbands  from  their  wives. 

There  were  lovers  from  their  dear  ones, 
Pledging  honor  and  their  lives. 

They  came  at  call  of  duty. 

The  loyal,  brave,  and  true; 
The  starry  flag  above  them, 

The  red,  the  white,  and  blue. 

Their  columns  met  the  danger. 

Where'er  the  die  was  cast; 
'Til  glory  sheened  their  banners. 

And  victory  came  at  last. 

Here  are  men  who  fought  with  Hooker, 
And  helped  Grant  to  conquer  Lee, 

Who  saw  the  plumes  of  Sherman  waving 
From  Atlanta  to  the  sea. 

Men  who  charged  on  grim  Fort  Wagner, 

Drank  the  bitter  cup  of  woe. 
Left  their  comrades  fallen,  dying, 

Before  relentless  southern  foe. 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Men  who  rode  in  line  with  Custer, 
Stood  with  Meade  in  battle  flame. 

Soldiers  of  the  grand  old  army, 

History  e'er  will  guard  your  fame! 

Not  alone  with  Grant  and  Sherman 
Fought  the  North  men,  true  and  brave, 

But  with  Farragut  and  Porter, 
On  the  restless  ocean  wave. 

Here  are  sailors  from  the  frigates. 

True  and  loyal  as  the  stars; 
Who  knows  what  might  have  been  the  verdict, 

But  for  the  sturdy,  brave  jack  tars. 

Oh,  the  glory!     You  deserve  it, 
And  our  prayers  for  you  we  yield. 

As  we  prayed  the  gods  to  save  you. 
When  you  stood  on  battlefields. 


Tho'  the  seal  of  time  is  on  you. 
Deep  its  furrows  on  your  brow. 

As  in  the  age  of  blood  and  iron, 
Soldiers  then,  you  're  soldiers  now. 

You  the  heroes,  you  the  winners. 

It  's  written  on  the  scroll  of  fame. 

That  you  've  walked  the  paths  of  glory, 
And  have  won  a  lasting  name. 


83 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

What  is  fame  without  its  martyrs? 

What  is  life  without  a  breath? 
What  is  valor  without  bloodshed? 

What  is  victory  without  death? 

As  we  read  it,  as  we  see  it 

On  the  page  of  other  times, 
You  have  left  the  brave  and  fallen 

All  along  your  battle  lines. 

Oh,  the  men  who  lie  behind  you, 
Pictured  now  on  memory's  wall! 

Tell  their  virtues,  bless  them  ever, 
Praise  them  as  the  shadows  fall! 

Tributes!     What  were  they  to  danger? 

What  to  risk  of  life  or  limb? 
What  was  honor,  what  was  glory 

To  men  who  fell  in  battle  grim? 

Tho'  the  flag  still  waves  above  them. 
And  their  memory  with  us  stays. 

Yet  they  granted  life  and  fortune 
In  those  dark  and  bloody  days. 

Still  you  march  in  army  column. 
Wear  the  dear  old  army  blue; 

Still  your  lines,  tho'  weak  and  broken. 
Follow  guidon  straight  and  true. 

Still  your  helmets  gleam  in  sunlight. 
And  your  banners  wave  on  high; 

Still  the  plaudits  of  the  nation 
Greet  you  as  the  years  pass  by. 

84 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Oh,  you  grizzly,  rough  old-timers! 

Tho'  you  've  fought  the  contest- through, 
You  still  are  living  with  us, 

You  still  are  on  review. 

Not  alone  in  grim  campaigning, 

Nor  in  din  of  battle  strife. 
But  wherever  fate  has  placed  you. 

In  the  peaceful  walks  of  life. 

As  we  think  it,  as  we  speak  it, 

True  the  echo  of  the  heart, 
Comes  the  word  from  us  forever. 

You  have  acted  well  your  part. 

There  on  the  southern  hillsides. 
Where  your  stricken  comrades  sleep. 

And  the  sentinels  of  memory. 
Their  silent  vigils  keep. 

If  I  could  make  them  hear  me. 

By  any  skill  or  art, 
I  'd  tell  the  brave  and  fallen 

They  acted  well  their  part. 

In  the  battle  of  Fort  Fisher 

A  peerless  soldier  fell. 
And  every  spring  you  scatter  flowers 

On  the  grave  of  Louis  Bell. 

And  the  wild  birds  in  the  treetops, 

In  morning  chorus  swell, 
Sing  over  him  a  gloria; 

He  nobly  played  his  part  and  well. 

85 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLH. 

This  your  home,  and  this  your  bivouac; 

Here  you  '11  float  adown  life's  stream; 
Here  you  '11  fight  your  battles  over; 

Here  you  '11  smoke  your  pipes  and  dream. 

Fair  are  the  frescoes  on  its  walls, 
Fair  the  touch  of  artist's  hand, 

But  its  pride  is  in  the  portraits 
Of  the  men  who  saved  the  land. 

Hang  the  pictures  of  your  heroes. 

And  proudly  place  on  high 
The  features  of  the  soldiers'  friend. 

Best  friend  of  all,  our  "Cy." 

So  here  's  a  health  to  you,  brave  men! 

Let 's  drink  it  with  a  cheer! 
Here  's  bonny  life,  and  bonny  hope. 

For  many,  many  a  year! 

May  your  banners  wave  forever! 

And  your  sons  the  story  tell 
Of  that  band  of  hero  soldiers. 

The  Post  of  Louis  Bell! 

i^       ^*       ^5*       ^* 

FRIENDSHIP'S  TRIBUTE. 

By  some  old  sage  it  has  been  said: 

"Speak  none  but  good  words  of  the  dead;" 
This  adage  may  be  right  and  true, 

But  is  not  praise  to  the  living  due? 


86 


BALLADS  OF  THE  BILLS. 

I  fain  would  eulogize  a  friend. 

That  he  read  my  thoughts  before  his  end; 
And  know  that  of  my  loving  heart, 

His  life  has  always  been  a  part! 

From  cradle  fifty  years  ago, 

Through  times  of  gladness  and  of  woe, 
A  sturdy,  manly  form  stood  by 

With  helping  hand  and  friendly  eye. 

I  envy  him  his  simple  life, 

So  free  from  taint  of  guile  or  strife; 

As  cheerful  as  a  cloudless  day, 
He  treads  his  modest,  honest  way. 

Of  Nature  born,  he  loves  the  fields, 
And  noble  sports  the  forest  yields, 

But  best  of  all,  to  hunt  the  coon 

By  the  brilliant  light  of  the  autumn  moon. 

Oh!  nights  and  nights  we  've  strolled  together; 

All  kinds  of  luck;  all  kinds  of  weather; 
We  little  cared  whether  bad  or  good. 

The  joy  of  our  hearts  was  the  free  wild-wood. 

Congenial  spirits — both  agree 

No  earthly  music  for  him  or  me, 
No  sight  our  mortal  eyes  can  see 

So  grand  as  a  coon-dog  at  a  tree. 

Old  man,  we  've  had  our  last  hard  tramp; 

We  soon  in  woodland  shades  must  camp; 
We  soon  shall  meet  upon  the  shore 

To  talk  of  hunting  days  once  more. 

87 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Thro'  all  the  years  unto  the  end, 

My  childhood,  youth,  and  manhood  friend; 

Of  honest  life  and  humble  fame, 
Warren  Sanborn  is  his  name. 

^*         t^         ^*         t^* 

HAYSEED. 

[Bead  at  Old  Home  Day  celebration,  Henniker,  N".  H., 
August  21,  1906.     Dedicated  to  Hon.  George  C.  Preston.] 

Friends  and  citizens  of  the  grand  old  town, 

I  bid  you  hail  and  hearty  cheer; 
If  I  put  you  to  eternal  sleep. 

Rest  easy,  the  undertaker  's  near. 

A  worthy  subject  I  will  broach, 

The  badge  of  noble  men; 
I  '11  treat  it  well  as  I  know  how. 

With  uncouth,  halting  pen. 

It 's  simple,  but  has  filled  for  aye. 

The  gap  of  human  need; 
A  part  of  God's  great  plan  of  life. 

The  humble,  trite  hayseed. 

Be  it  of  witch  grass  which  makes  the  hoe 
Keep  time  to  cuss  words  as  they  flow; 

Herds  grass  of  the  upland  field. 

Perhaps  the  richest  in  its  yield;  -^.i^ii; 


88 


1 


„^fiALLAD8  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Eed  top  with  its  burnished  sheen, 
Or  blue  joint,  stately  meadow  queen; 

These  and  a  hundred  other  kinds. 
Have  covered  the  world  with  a  carpet  of  green. 

There  's  glory  in  its  verdant  hue. 

Ah,  yes;  there  's  glory,  and  dollars,  too. 

Hayseed  is  a  mark  of  honor, 

An  emblem  proud  and  grand; 
It  's  flecked  the  locks  of  presidents. 

And  heroes  of  the  land. 

The  term  and  what  it  signifies, 

I  would  never,  never  change; 
And  if  't  were  mine  to  say  the  word, 

I  'd  found  a  Hayseed  Grange. 

Were  I  to  choose  a  coat  of  arms. 

The  choicest  and  the  best. 
Instead  of  glittering  diamonds, 

I  'd  have  hayseed  in  the  crest. 

And  so  to  you  today  I  sing, 

Of  the  loyal,  brave,  and  fair. 
Who  sprang  into  life's  battle, 

With  hayseed  in  their  hair. 

Of  the  men  who  guide  the  people, 

The  great  men  of  today; 
The  men  who  lead  the  armies. 

They  came  from  fields  of  hay. 

89 


BALLADS  OF  TEE  BILLS. 

I  look  into  the  eyes  of  those 
Who  've  won  a  lasting  name, 

And  have  a  legacy  to  leave. 
Of  honor,  wealth,  and  fame. 

They  came  from  rugged  hillsides. 
From  hilltops,  gray  and  cold; 

They  were  made  of  granite  fibre, 
They  were  cast  in  granite  mold. 

You  victors  in  life's  battle, 

Eeturn  to  us  once  more! 
Sit  down  again  with  old-time  friends. 

The  boys  and  girls  of  yore! 

Come  back  to  the  old  farm. 

Oh,  fortune's  grim  slave! 
To  the  blessed  old  home. 

Where  your  father  first  gave 

Those  precepts  instilled 

With  yellow  birch  rods. 
Come  back  and  bend  low 

To  the  old  household  gods. 

Come  back  to  the  old  girls. 
By  whom  you  were  smitten. 

Whom  you  courted  and  loved. 
Till  they  gave  you  the  mitten! 

The  past  is  forgotten, 

Their  romance  is  o'er. 
And,  widows  or  old  maids. 

They  '11  have  you  once  more. 

90 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLB. 

Come  back  to  the  old  church, 

Where  you  heard  hymns  of  praise 

And  slept  out  the  sermon — 
Live  over  those  days! 

Come  back  to  the  old  dogs, 

Which  hunted  the  coons. 
Gave  you  many  a  frolic, 

'Neath  the  October  moons. 

Oh,  pet  them  and  pat  them! 

They  shall  not  be  sold, 
Tho'  their  feet  have  grown  weary. 

And  their  eyes  have  grown  old. 

John  Colby  has  got  one. 
Which  hunted  with  Noah, 

Calls  him  now  worth  two  wives. 
Perhaps  half  a  wife  more. 

He  once  told  me  on  the  quiet. 
In  the  woods  upon  a  log. 

He  don't  want  to  go  to  Heaven 
Unless  he  can  take  that  dog. 

Bring  treasures  and  dainties, 

For  good  old  Mamma! 
Bring  Clicquot  and  Mumms 

For  dear  old  Papa! 

'T  is  much  you  may  do. 

In  a  glad,  kindly  way; 
Just  step  to  the  bank 

And  the  old  mortgage  pay! 

81 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Or  into  the  store, 

And  from  ledger's  grim  page, 
Wipe  off  the  account 

That  has  run  for  an  age! 

And  then  if  the  cash  in  your  pocket  allow, 

Eeplace  the  ten-wrinkled. 

Dry,  farrow  old  cow. 
With  a  Guernsey  or  Jersey  or  Holstein! 

And  say!     You  can  buy  a  first-class  one 

Of  our  friend,  Charlie  Eay. 

And  here,  let  me  tell  you 

While  on  that  boy's  trail. 
Is  a  case  where  a  life 

Has  not  found  the  word  "fail." 

And  when  to  the  brim 

His  stocking  he  fills. 
With  fifties  and  twenties. 

And  other  big  bills. 

He  can  wink  at  the  boys. 

And  say,  "You  can  see 
What  hayseed  and  pluck 

Are  doing  for  me," 


Talk  about  a  recompense! 

Wait  until  you  go, 
Then  in  the  warm  tears 

That  down  aged  cheeks  flow, 

92 


BALLADS  OF  THE  BILLS.  ' 

In  heart  words  and  blessings 

Upon  you  for  aye, 
Oh,  boys!  there  you  '11  get 

Quadruple  your  pay. 

Go  walk  in  the  churchyard. 
Where  sleeps  your  old  friend. 

Mementoes  of  flowers 

With  tears  you  may  blend. 

The  incense  of  memory 

Will  rise  to  the  sky. 
Perhaps  he  may  see  you. 

From  ether  on  high. 

Perhaps  he  is  near  you. 

Is  with  you  today; 
Thank  God  for  the  hope. 

That  the  soul  lives  alway! 

Go  down  to  the  diving  place. 

Behind  the  old  mill! 
Take  a  plunge  in  the  pool, 

'T  will  make  you  feel  well! 

'T  will  drive  off  lumbago, 

And  rheumaticky  pains; 
And  the  hot  blood  of  youth, 

Will  thrill  your  old  veins. 

Talk  about  your  Turkish  baths, 

Hot  Springs  or  Grand  Savoy! 
There  's  nothing  like  the  swimming  hole 

You  dove  in  when  a  boy. 

93 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Pollow  down  the  old  trout  streams. 

You  won't  get  a  bite, 
Except  from  mosquitoes, 

And  't  will  serve  you  just  right. 

If  they  tease  you  and  gnaw  you, 

And  cause  you  to  swear. 
And  spill  your  wet  bait, 

And  shed  your  false  hair. 

But  memory  will  serve  you  a  banquet  of  joy, 
For  you  fished  those  same  streams 

And  killed  those  same  'squitoes. 
Years  ago  when  a  boy. 

Steal  down  thro'  the  bulk-head, 

As  you  did  when  a  boy! 
Bend  low  at  the  cider  cask. 

It  's  the  fountain  of  joy! 

Draw  a  mug  full  of  nectar! 

Drink  it  down  to  the  dregs! 
And  then  quaff  another! 

'T  wont  twist  your  old  legs. 

'T  will  stir  up  your  feelings; 

Set  your  brain  in  full  play; 
You  '11  be  called  on  to  speak. 

At  the  Old  Home  Meeting  Day. 

Oh,  lawyers  and  doctors, 

And  other  cheap  fry! 
For  once  bid  your  patients 

And  clients  "Good-bye"! 

04 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Forget  all  their  cases, 

Forget  all  their  ills. 
And  rest  for  a  time 

On  our  glorious  hills! 

And  when  at  last  you  take  your  leave 
For  your  desk  or  office  chair. 

Don't  forget  to  sprinkle  well 
With  hayseed  your  gray  hair. 

And  if,  perchance,  you  may  be  bald, 

Have  nothing  but  a  pate, 
Just  stick  it  on  with  Spaulding's  glue, 

Perhaps  't  will  germinate. 

Ah!     Now  I  am  drifting,  drifting. 
From  the  tenor  of  my  theme! 

Drifting  like  the  flooded  water. 
In  yonder  noble  stream! 

Drifting  that  I  may  recall  you. 
In  the  course  of  homely  rhyme, 

To  a  well  remembered  feature, 
Of  the  good  old-fashioned  time. 

Tho'  now  we  have  high  opera. 

Vaudeville  and  violet  tea. 
My  friends,  no  rinktum  can  compare 

With  the  old-time  husking  bee. 

With  its  flow  of  lusty  frolic. 
With  its  tide  of  Jolly  song, 

And  tho'  they  stayed  till  break  o'  day. 
The  nights  were  none  too  long. 

95 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

How  they  piled  up  golden  nuggets! 

How  they  passed  sweet  eider  round, 
How  the  coy  girls  hid  their  faces, 

When  some  boy  a  red  ear  found! 

I  am  told,  and  half  believe  it. 

For  the  rumor  still  is  rife. 
That  at  a  jolly  husking  junket, 

George  Preston  found  his  wife. 

Honest  George,  the  H-o-n, 

He  takes  your  hand  and  treats  you  fair. 
But  when  he  started  out  in  life. 

He  had  hayseed  in  his  hair. 

He  has  shown  there  's  good  stuff  in  him, 
He  has  triumphed,  he  has  won, 

Give  the  husking  bee  the  credit, 
For  by  red  ear  it  was  done. 

For  tho'  they  sometimes  tease  and  nag  us. 
Give  us  fits  and  heaves  and  hives, 

Still  the  beacon  light  that  guides  us. 
Is  the  blessing  of  good  wives. 

Noble  wives  and  noble  mothers. 
Faithful,  tender,  fond,  and  true; 

Keep  the  love  lamps  ever  burning. 
Our  lives,  our  hopes,  depend  on  you. 

Our  fathers  did  a  noble  work, 

They  labored  long  and  well; 
Today  grand  orchards  and  green  fields 

Eemain,  their  deeds  to  tell. 

96 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

There  are  honored  names  upon  the  scroll, 

I  cannot  mention  all; 
But  one  it  seems  a  duty 

That  I  should  here  recall. 

He  went  out  from  among  you, 

With  modest,   humble   mien. 
From  birth  almost  as  lowly 

As  the  gentle  Nazarene. 

Not  ^mid  the  clash  of  sabres, 

Or  roar  of  hostile  guns 
George  Tucker  won  his  laurels 

In  a  peaceful  work  well  done. 

A  lasting  honor  to  his  name. 
Worth  more  than  golden  crown; 

His  vested  gift,  long  may  it  stand, 
A  blessing  to  the  town!* 


Up  there  where  they  file  sheep's  noses. 

As  peaked  as  a  powder  horn, 
To  pick  the  grass  'tween  Mink  Hill  ledges. 

My  valued  friend  and  I  were  born. 

He  rocked  my  cradle  when  a  kid; 

He  fed  me  with  a  spoon; 
And  sang  me  lulling  baby  songs. 

From  morning  until  noon. 


*  His  liberal  bequests  founded  the  Henniker  Public  Library  and  built  Its 
fine  building. 

97 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

And  even  now  I  feel  his  love, 

No  whit  the  less  for  wear; 
His  gentle  word  will  sober  me. 

When  I  get  on  a  tear. 

The  ladies  all  adore  him. 
Their  loyalty  ne'er  fails; 
.  But  spite  of  woman's  arts  and  smiles 
He  much  prefers  the  mails. 

For  there  he  gets  his  salary. 

With  Uncle  Sam's  regards; 
He  's  been  tried  and  you  can  trust  him^ 

He  won't  read  your  postal  cards. 

Hen  Merrick,  staunch  and  sturdy  friend, 
I  pledge  you  health  and  cheer! 

Long  may  your  loyal  heart  beat  true! 
Long  may  you  linger  here! 

Charlie   French,  you  gay  romancer, 
Yiou  always  draw  to  fill  your  hand* 

I  hope  your  welcome  smile  will  cheer  us, 
As  long  as  the   stone  bridge  shall  stand! 

I  hope  the  foxes  and  the  rabbits 

Will  fall  before  your  matchless  skill. 

Until  the  river  dries  forever. 

With  no  swine  left  on  old  Pork  Hill! 

Fond  are  the  loving  stories 

That  are  written  of  the  dead; 
But  still  of  you,  the  living. 

Should  words  of  praise  be  said. 

98 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

You  the  heroes  still  in  conflict. 
You,  who  yet  are  in  your  prime. 

You,  the  brave  and  earnest  soldiers. 
Holding  firm  the  battle  line! 

Yon,  with  courage  still  undaunted. 

Thro'  whose  veins  rich  life  blood  runs. 

You,  whose  eyes  are  on  the  future, 
You,  the  men  behind  the  guns! 

Then  stand,  oh  faithful  cohorts,  steady! 

Reck  not  sorrow,  fear  not  wrong! 
Stand  with  brave  hearts  ever  ready. 

Firm  in  spirit,  courage  strong! 

In  the  vanguard  of  the  ages. 

In  the  harvest  field  of  time, 
Write  a  story  for  your  children. 

Worthy  of  the  old  home  shrine. 

t^^        ^5*        ^*        <5* 

THE  ARMY  BLUE. 

[Read   before    Freschl   Post,   G.   A.    R.,   of  Manchester, 
N.  H.,  February  4,  1905.] 

In  a  cabin  on  the  Kenesaw, 

Forty  years  ago  and  more, 
A  negro  child  sat  watching,  listening, 

Thro'  the  battle's  din  and  roar. 

99 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"Mammy,  mammy,  they  are  winning, 
Yankee  soldiers,  brave  and  true." 

"Hush  dar,  chile,  I  doan  believe  it." 
"Mammy,  dar  's  de  army  blue." 

"Dar  's  de  blue  line,  wid  der  bayonets, 
Fighting,   charging  thro'  the  trees, 
Bress  de  Lord  and  joy  to  heaben. 
Mammy,  mammy,  we  are  free." 

So  it  was  throughout  the  conflict, 
Where'er  the  starry  banner  waved 

It  promised  to  a  stricken  people 

That  from  bondage  they  were  saved. 

Noble  band  of  hero  soldiers! 

Never  such  the  world  e'er  knew, 
As  the  boys  who  won  the  battles. 

Clad  in  dear  old  army  blue. 

Blue  as  was  the  sky  above  them. 
And  battle  smoke  when  cannon  boomed; 

Blue  as  were  the  hearts  of  traitors 
When  at  last  their  cause  was  doomed, 

'T  was  the  conflict  of  the  ages, 

Test  between  the  right  and  wrong; 

But  the  boys  in  blue  must  triumph. 
For  the  right  is  always  strong. 

As  your  campfire  in  the  evening 

Casts  abroad  its  cheery  hue. 
And  your  pipe  dreams  and  your  musings 

Are  of  those  who  marched  with  you, 

100 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Marched  and  fought  upon  the  hillside; 

Bled  and  died  upon  the  plain; 
In  the  darkness  and  the  gloaming, 

They  seem  with  you  once  again. 

And  you  see  them  dressed  in  column, 
On  parade  in  grand  review. 

Clad  not  in  effulgent  whiteness, 
But  in  old-time  army  blue. 

Again  the  battle  line  moves  onward 
Across  Antietam's  fatal  bridge, 

Or  meets  Pickett's  charging  column 
On  the  bloody  crested  ridge. 

There  is  left  a  shattered  remnant, 

A  worn  and  weary  few. 
Of  the  mighty  host  which  sprung  to  arms 

Way  back  in  '62. 

Furled  are  your  riven  banners; 

"Without  note  of  drum  or  fife, 
Your  stricken  line  is  moving  onward 

In  the  solemn  march  of  life. 

You  are  looking  toward  the  sunset. 
Verging  on  the  sunset  land, 

Where  your  comrades  gone  before  you 
Wait  for  you  with  welcome  hands. 

Wait  for  you  to  join  their  column; 

Wait  to  dress  the  line  with  you; 
Wait  to  sing  the  praise  forever 

Of  the  dear  old  army  blue. 

101 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

March  along  into  the  future 

Till  your  campground  is  in  view, 

Bivouac  there  and  rest  forever 
'Neath  canopy  of  army  blue. 

i^w       (5*       ^*       <5* 

MY  TRYST  WITH  NATURE. 

The  same  old  musing,  dreamy  fancy. 
Which  has  led  me  from  a  boy. 

Same  old  love  for  dear  old  hilltops, 

Same  old  passion. 
Same  old  joy. 

Here  again  controls  my  being. 
As  I  walk  with  her  once  more 

And  have  tryst 

With  gentle  Nature 

As  in  happy  days  of  yore. 

She  smiles  on  me,  half  coquetting; 

Yes,  she  knows  I  love  her  still, 
She,  my  goddess, 
Her  I  worship, 

Yielding  e'er  to  her  sweet  will. 

She  the  fairy  queen  of  earthland, 
Eoyal  sovereign, 

Eegal  one; 
She  my  plighted  troth  and  honor. 

She  my  fealty  hath  won. 

102 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

I  bow  low  when  in  her  presence; 

At  her  court  I  bend  my  knee, 
I,  so  humble, 
Yet  so  loving. 

May  she  ever  smile  on  me. 

^*       x3^       t^f       (5* 

THE  OLD  BADGER  WOODS. 

[Many  hunters  have  a  reverential  memory  for  the  Old 
Badger  Woods,  long  since  swept  away.] 

John  D.  Colby,  friend  loyal  and  true, 
This  humble  verse  I  inscribe  to  you. 

Girt  round  with  rugged  hilltops 
From  whose  grim  crests  are  seen 

The  White  Hills  to  the  northward 
And  lesser  mounts  between; 

In  shroud  of  eternal  shadow. 

Despite  the  light  of  day. 
Dim  and  darksome  as  the  eve. 

The  Badger  woodland  lay. 

Two  hundred  acres  of  noble  trees. 
Kissed  by  every  morning  breeze. 

Stood  there  towering  to  the  skies. 
For  all  wild  life  a  paradise. 

Stood  the  red  oak,  strong  and  bold. 

The  beech  tree,  gray  with  years  untold; 

The  pine,  with  solemn,  lasting  sheen, 
Eock  maple,  stately  forest  queen. 

103 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

The  chestnut,  fruited  with  its  mast, 
The  hemlock,  rooted  firm  and  fast; 

The  elm  tree,  kingly  in  its  pride, 
The  birch,  with  drapery  of  a  bride. 

The  fox  lived  there  and  reared  her  young, 
The  wood  bird  in  the  branches  sung; 

The  partridge,  in  the  early  fall. 

Clucked  to  her  brood  her  matin  call. 

And  there  at  sunset  one  might  see 
Gray  squirrels  high  on  a  chestnut  tree; 

A  little  later  thro'  the  wood 

The  raccoon  ranging  for  its  food. 

The  owl  would  hoot 

The  bluejay  scream, 

And  bittern  croak  beside  the  stream. 
The  crow  from  naked  limb  on  high 
Gave  to  his  flock  the  danger  cry. 

Jack  Eabbit,  nimble  woodland  sprite, 

Flashed  thro'  the  shade  like  gleam  of  light; 

And  in  the  caverns  'neath  the  hills 

Lived  hedgehogs  grim  with  barbed  quills. 

Ah,  those  were  halcyon  days  of  joy. 
To  roam  and  hunt  as  man  and  boy; 

No  hours  in  life  so  dear  to  me 
As,  friend,  I  there  have  passed  with  thee. 

No  vision  grand,  no  act  or  play. 

Like  Badger  woods  in  an  autumn  day. 

No  thought  so  sweet  my  heart  can  fill 
As  memory  of  that  dear  old  hill, 

104 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Too  soon,  indeed,  the  ruin  came, 
All  too  soon  the  sentence  passed, 

Those  glorious  avenues  of  trees 
Were  doomed  to  ax  and  saw  at  last, 

Alas!  their  giant  forms  went  down 

And  smile  of  Nature  changed  to  frown; 

Naught  left  but  ruin  and  decay 
Of  forest  glory  passed  away. 

Why  should  the  groves  of  God  be  sold? 

Why  smite  grandeur  for  dross  of  gold? 
Why  strike  from  Nature's  diadem 

Her  loved  and  valued  forest  gem? 

Oh,  friend,  do  you  remember 

The  hours  you  've  roamed  with  me. 

By  daylight  and  by  starlight. 
In  woodland  grand  and  free? 

Hold  sacred,  then,  the  memory 

Of  wooded  hill  and  dell, 
And  days  we  spent  among  them. 

Ere  life's  shadows  backward  fell. 

We  '11  ne'er  forget  them,  will  we,  man, 
Tho'  now  we  're  getting  old. 

And  the  verdure  of  life's  growing  tree 
Glinfs  sheen  of  autumn  gold? 

But  still  our  hearts  yearn  for  the  woods 

With  fervor  of  a  child, 
No  place  on  earth  so  grand  and  free 

As  forest  dim  and  wild, 

105 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


WILD  FLOWERS  AND  WILD  SONGS. 

Upon  the  hill  the  wild  rose  blooms. 
Blooms  in  beauty  the  summer   long; 

In  forest  dim  the  woodthrush  sings, 
Sings  his  matchless,  wild  bird  song. 

Beside  the  stream,  the  cardinal  flower, 

Gorgeous,  royal  as  a  queen; 
Within  the  hedge  the  hermit  bird 

Singing  ever,  yet  unseen. 

Adown  the  vale  the  violet  blue 
Reflects  the  hue  of  heavenly  way; 

The  linnet*  in  the  shady  grove 
Gives  heavenly  music  all  the  day. 

Above  the  meadow  daisies 

Laughs  bobolink  clear  and  strong; 
My  heart  is  in  wild  blossoms. 

My  soul  in  wild  birds'  song, 

I  love  the  morning's  glory, 

I  love  the  starry  night; 
Charmed  and  won  by  Nature, 

My  troth  to  her  I  plight. 


106 


— "  .s 


<  ^ 


BALLADS  OF  TEE  HILLS. 


THE  HOME  LIGHT  ON  THE  HILL. 

Where'er  life's  tide  has  borne  me. 

On  waters  shoal  or  deep. 
Where'er  the  billows  leave  me, 

One  memory  I  keep. 

One  spot  in  the  world's  great  landscape 

My  heart's  love  ever  fills, 
The  dear  old  childhood  homestead, 

Amid  the  Warner  hills. 

I  've  heard  sweet  music  welling 
In  notes  both  rich  and  rare. 

Entrancing  cadence  swelling; 
The  birds  sung  sweeter  there. 

I  've  seen  grand  sunset  glories, 
On  plain  and  mountain  fall; 

The  home  light  in  the  window 
Was  grander  than  them  all. 

It  beckoned  in  the  darkness. 

As  stars  can  never  do; 
It  told  of  cheer  and  welcome. 

Peace,  rest,  the  whole  night  thro'. 

Oh,  beacon  of  the  long  ago. 

And  are  you  shining  still? 
And  do  you  send  your  kindly  light 

From  off  the  dear  old  hill? 


107 


BALLADS  OF  THE  BILLS. 

For  on  the  far  horizon 

I  fancy  as  I  roam 
I  see  a  ray  still  guiding 

Back  to  the  old-time  home. 

But  find  when  I  cease  dreaming 
And  plod   my   journey   on; 

'T  was  only  hlissful  seeming, 
For  all  but  the  hill  is  gone. 

^*         t^^         f^^         t?" 

IN  TOUCH  WITH  NATURE. 

To  rest,  to  muse,  to  dream, 
'Neath  spell  of  whispering  stream, 

While  thro'  the  forest  rafters 
Bright  points  of  sunlight  gleam. 

In  touch  with  Mother  Nature, 

On  bed  of  leaves  to  lie, 
With  troubled  spirit  calmed  and  soothed 

By  her  sweet  lullaby. 

The  song  of  wild  birds  in  the  trees. 
The  squirrel's  eager  tattoo  call. 

The  hum  of  busy  working  bees. 
The   summer  glory  over  all. 

In  tune  with  her  grand  music. 
In  tune  with  her  wild  lays, 

The  choicest  moments  of  my  life 
Are  Nature's  gala  days. 

108 


BALLADS  OP  THE  HILLS. 

FAITHFUL  JOE. 

[Dedicated   to   Miss  Florence   Cram,  in  memory  of  her 
father,  Joseph  Cram.] 

Up  'mid  the  hills  of  a  dear  old  town, 
Where    every   night   the   evening   star 

Looks  softly  down,  and,  if  stars  could  weep, 
"Would  shed  a  tear  where  the  loved  and  lost 
Of  the  hamlet  sleep, 

And  the  graves  in  tiny  billows 

Koll  green  o'er  pallid,  deathly  pillows. 

Two  flags  are  waving. 

Each  o'er  a  sleeping  soldier's  head, 
Emblems  of  honor  to  the  loyal  dead; 

Here  a  father,  there  the  son. 
And  when  the  battle  call  rung  out. 

One  was  a  sturdy  man  of  years, 
And  one  with  life  but  scarce  begun. 

These  tiny  symbols 

Above  the  grass-grown  mounds, 
Placed  there  by  loving  hands 

In  honor  of  the  brave, 
Suggest  a  story  in  their  way 

Of  the  times  that  tried  men's  souls. 
The  nation's  dark  and  troubled  day. 

The  son  was  Edwin,  the  father  was  Joe; 

The  fervid  blood  of  youth 
Prompted  the  loyal  boy  to  go; 

He  sought  the  parent's  word: 

109 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

^God  bless  you,  yes! 

And  I  go,  too,"  he  said. 
Of  such  grand  stuff 
Were  hero  fathers  made. 

'I  go  to  be  your  comrade 

In  danger  and  in  pain; 
To  help  you  bear  the  burden 

And  to  bring  you  back  again. 

'You  are  young  and  slender, 

I  am  strong  but  not  more  brave; 

My  boy,  we  go  together. 
The  dear  old  flag  to  save." 

Before  Port  Hudson's  bastions 
And  in  fevered  swamp  and  fen. 

The  old  "Sixteenth"  seemed  doomed  by  fate; 
A  few  came  back,  but  wrecks  of  men, 

Shadows  of  the  noble  corps, 

Which  marched  away  nine  months  before. 

All  thro'  the  grim  campaigning. 

Thro'  war-tide's  ebb  and  flow. 
To  aid  and  care  for  his  weakening  son, 

Stood  brave  and  faithful  Joe. 

Till  when  at  last  in  the  North-land, 
They  sought  the  dear  old  farm, 

The  stricken,  weary  soldier  boy 
Fell  asleep  in  his  mother's  arms. 

110 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

There  are  tales  of  hero  fathers. 

In  the  days  of  long  ago, 
But  none  more  faithful  to  his  child 

Than  steadfast,  Spartan  Joe. 

Mahomet  in  the  Koran 

Gives  promise  that  the  brave 
Shall  rest  forever  'neath  fair  skies, 

And  o'er  them  banners  wave. 

And  on  Memorial  mornings, 
When  their  silent  homes  I  view. 

My  heart   responds  the  sentiment, 
Mahomet's  words  were  true. 

^*         ^*         ^*         ^* 

SPRINGTIME  AND  AUTUMN. 

[Read  before  the  class  of  1876,  Dartmouth  College,  at 
its  thirtieth  anniversary,  June  25,  1906.] 

There  's  gladness  in  the  May  air, 
Bursting  flowers  and  buds  of  green, 

And  its  beauty,  and  its  freshness 
In  no  other  months  are  seen. 

•        But  in  days  of  early  autumn. 

When  the  leaves  begin  to  shade. 
With  their  tints  of  gorgeous  splendor. 
Golden  harvests  then  are  made. 

From  the  promise  of  the  Springtime 

We  have  drifted,  one  and  all. 
From  that  beauty  and  that  freshness 

To  the  glory  of  the  Fall. 
Ill 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Classmates  now,  as  in  that  Autumn, 

When  our  college  life  began; 
Lovers  each  of  every  other; 

Brothers  in  a  loving  clan. 

We  have  passed  well  thro'  the  ordeal, 
Through  the  struggle  and  the  strife, 

To  the  reaping  and  the  binding. 
To  the  vintage  time  of  life. 

Boys,  when  first  we  came  together, 
Boys,  the  fathers  now  of  men, 

Boys,  tonight  around  the  table, 

Oh,  boys,  let  's  sing  our  songs  again! 

Oh,  boys,  let  's  sing  our  songs  again! 

Again  in  action,  and  in  spirit; 

Boys  in  nature,  free  and  bold; 
Strong  to  battle  life's  grim  column; 

Oh,  can  it  be  that  boys  grow  old? 

As  here  tonight  the  old  class  gathers, 
With  furrowed  face  and  locks  of  gray. 

Brief  space  of  joy  that  's  given  to  us, 
Let  's  drive  the  tyrant  Time  away. 

Let  's  eat  of  recollection's  vintage. 
Plucked  from  Indian  Summer  vines! 

Let  's  dream  again  of  old-time  glories! 
Let  's  drink  our  fill  of  memory's  wines! 


112 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Call  reminiscence  of  the  Campus, 

Back  again  from  college  days. 
Of  the  football  and  the  cane-rush, 

And  tlie  jolly  Freshman  haze! 

Of  the  wrestling  and  the  surging. 

Of  the  tug  with  might  and  main. 
Of  the  winning  and  the  cheering. 

Oh,  can't  we  rush  a  cane  again? 

Oh,  can't  we  rush  a  cane  again? 

Line  up  the  sturdy  boys  of  old  time, 
"Bridge,"  "Shorty,"  Ryder,  "Reck,"  and  "Stim"! 

Has  the  blood  grown  cold  within  them? 
Have  they  lost  their  youthful  vim? 

Ah,  no!     On  other  fields  of  action. 

They  are  battling  for  the  right; 
They  are  winning — God  be  with  them! 

They  are  winning  life's  grim  fight. 

Here  are  men  who  hold  class  honor 

As  a  precious,  sacred  trust; 
Who  will  keep  it,  who  will  guard  it, 

'Til  we  turn  again  to  dust! 

All  are  sowing  for  a  future. 

Beyond  the  faintest  morning  ray; 

All  are  planting  seeds  for  fruitage. 
In  another,  fairer  day. 


113 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

As  we  sit  here  at  the  banquet, 
Cheered  by  wine  cups'  ruddy  glow. 

O'er  the  flood  of  wit  and  fancy, 
Tides  of  memory  ebb  and  flow. 

Memories  of  the  boys  passed  onward, 
Memories  s^anctifled  with  tears; 

But  tonight,  I  tell  you,  classmates. 
The  dear  lost  ones  are  near! 

The  dear  lost  ones  are  near! 

Silently  they  listen  to  us. 
As  we  pass  the  word  of  cheer; 

Silently  they  breathe  their  blessing. 
As  they  mingle  with  us  here. 

Perry,  the  hussar  of  genius; 

Barnard,   hon-homme,   nature   grand; 
Puffer,  whom  we  still  love  fondly, 

Tho'  he  walks  in  other  lands. 

Gentle  Holt  and  loyal  Darling; 

Thompson,  called  in  life's  young  day; 
Paul,  the  able,  brave  and  faithful. 

Have  passed  along  the  golden  way. 

French,  my  dearest  friend  of  old. 
Singing  now  in  halls  of  gold; 

We  'd  listen  long  upon  the  shore. 

If  we  might  hear  his  voice  once  more. 

114 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Father  Small. 

Poets  have  made  immortal 

Lesser,  weaker  men  than  he. 
But  none  truer  or  more  faithful 

Could  ever,  ever  be. 

May  angels  sing  forever 

The  praises  of  a  man. 
Whose  watchword  always  was 

"Let  's  do  the  best  we  can." 

Kenerson. 

May  flowers  ever  o'er  him  grow. 
Him  whom  we  loved,  the  last  to  go! 
'T  is  manliness  to  shed  a  tear 
For  "Ken,"  our  knight,  our  chevalier. 

Oh,  more  than  friend!     We  know  not  why 
The  arrow,  sent  by  the  Euler  high. 

Should  strike  from  out  our  loving  line 
A  heart  so  true,  a  life  so  brave, 

A  soul  so  pure. 
Dear  "Ken,"  as  thine. 

We  know  not  why, 
We  cannot  tell, 

But  whispering  voices  say, 
"'T  is  well!    'T  is  well!" 


115 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

The  way  seems  long  without  you, 
And  darksome  as  the  night. 
But,  Ken,  you  're  sleeping,  resting, 
'Neath  kindly,  heavenly  light. 

God  bless  your  sacred  memory! 
His  blessing  on  your  name! 

We  shall  love  you  ever,  ever, 
In  death  as  life  the  same. 

As  we  walk  the  streets  of  the  good  old  town, 
And  look — and  look — now  up,  now  down. 

Do  we  gaze  darkly  thro'  time's  glass? 
Or  do  we  see  our  old  friends  pass? 

Our  teachers — do  we  meet  today? 
Ah,  most  have  fallen  by  the  way! 

The  buildings  standing  grim  and  tall. 
Oh,  don't  we  see  Old  Dartmouth  Hall? 

With  "Vox   Clamardis"  ringing  on? 
Or  is  it  true  that,  too,  has  gone? 

The  Indian  pine  upon  the  hill. 

Where  we  broke  our  pipes  and  said  farewell. 
Does  that  still  tower  to  the  sky? 

Or  does  mirage  deceive  the  eye? 

Ah,  no!     Their  absence  brings  the   tears, 
They  all  have  gone  in  thirty  years; 

What  tho'  in  dreams  they  come  again. 

What  tho'  their  vision  fills  the  eye. 
Mirage  is  ever  in  the  sky. 

116 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS.  ' 

Many  an  evening  in  our  musings, 
As  the  shadows  crept  along, 

Have  we  felt  the  old  class  spirit, 
And  heard  the  old  class  songs. 

When  we  strove  to  raise  a  chorus. 

Our  weary  hearts  to  cheer, 
Dead  voices  would  not  answer; 

Instead,  there  came  a  tear. 

And  here  tonight  in  gloam  of  June  time 
As  we  stand  at  Memory's  shrine. 

The  loyal  feeling  comes  again, 

And  the  notes  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne." 

Age!     Ah,  yes,  't  is  hard  to  say  it! 

And  the  truth  is  sad  to  own; 
But  our  eyes  have  lost  their  lustre. 

And  the  years  are  in  our  bones. 

Years  of  toil  in  life's  hard  tread-mill; 

Years  of  watchfulness  and  care; 
Years  of  mingled  joy  and  sorrow; 

Years,  all  vanished  into  air. 

Still  our  hands  are  on  the  plow-share; 

Still  our  face  is  to  the  fore; 
Still  our  boat  is  on  the  waters; 

Still  we  have  not  reached  the  shore. 

Sternly  sit  the  Fates  above  us; 

Sternly  rule  our  courses  wide; 
Silently,  the  grim  old  pilot 

Sternly  guides  us  o'er  the  tide. 

117 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Time,  relentless,  heartless  master. 
Plows  the  furrows  on  our  brow; 

Binds  his  fetters  fast  upon  us, 
Who  once  were  young,  but  old  men  now. 


When  travelers  in  an  arid  land. 
Seek  vainly  for  a  refuge  nigh. 

Phantom  visions  of  the  haven  sought 
Shimmer  in  the  desert  sky. 

Eealistic  tho'  they  seem, 

In  truth,  a  fancy;  in  fact,  a  dream. 
So  to  our  eager  student  eyes. 

Golden  castles  filled  the  skies. 

So  thro'  months  and  years  agone. 
Brilliant  hopes  have  led  us  on; 

Some  along  the  trail  of  promise 
Found  fulfilment,  grand  and  large. 

Some  pursued  it  just  as  bravely, 
To  be  deceived  by  the  ghost  mirage. 

Still  there  's  grand  assurance  o'er  us. 
Bow  of  promise  in  the  sky, 

Ever  pressing  forward,  onward, 
We  shall  reach  it  by  and  by. 

Class  of  honor,  class  of  courage, 
Keep  the  banners  to  the  fore. 

For  the  line  is  still  advancing. 
And  the  conflict  is  not  o'er. 


118 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Class  of  loving,  loyal  brothers, 

Class  of  grand  historic  name. 
With  the  old-time  spirit  guiding. 

We  shall  reach  the  goal  of  fame. 

We  '11  not  despond  as  we  grow  old. 

Or  see  in  age  a  specter  gaunt; 
There  is  on  high  a  Ruler  kind. 

He  is  our  Shepherd,  we  shall  not  want. 

And  tho'  our  ears  may  hear  Him  not. 
And  by  our  eyes  He  is  not  seen. 

Still  He  guides  us  on  our  way, 
And  walks  with  us  in  pastures  green. 

Laudeamus,  let  us  praise! 

Let  us  praise  with  love  the  Master, 
Who  has  lengthened  out  our  days! 
We,  the  subjects  of  His  mercy. 

Here  on  this  our  natal  eve. 
Of  thirty  years  of  joy  and  sorrow. 

Stand  His  blessing  to  receive. 

These  thirty  years,  a  history  filled 
With  worthy  deeds  and  words  well  spoken, 
"E'er  yet  the  silver  cord  is  loosed, 
Or  the  golden  bowl  been  broken. 
Or  the  pitcher  at  the  fountain." 

Seventy-six  has  won  her  name. 

And  the  dear  old  class  a  worthy  fame. 

God  bless  her  now  and  evermore, 

'Til  the  last  man  lands  upon  the  shore, 

119 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Safe  in  the  realms  of  rest  afar, 
Safe  within  the  harbor  bar. 

And  when  the  dear  boys  all  are  gone, 
None  left  to  shed  a  tear, 

At  roll-call  on  the  other  shore, 
Each  one  will  answer,  "Here." 

Each  one  will  answer,  "Here." 

^*       t^       c5*       ^* 

THE  OLD-TIME  DOG  AND  GUN. 

[Delivered  before  the  Hillsborough  County  Fish  &  Game 
League,  April,  1906.  Dedicated  to  my  friend,  Hon.  Natt 
Wentworth.] 

Some  have  fancy  for  the  new, 

Some  have  fancy  for  the  old; 
Some  love  to  read  their  Bibles, 

Some  love  to  count  their  gold. 

Some  dream  of  battles  over, 

Think  how  the  trick  was  done; 
My  dreamings  and  my  musings 

Are  often  of  a  gun; 

Not  a  hammerless  breechloader. 

Fancy  stock  and  polished  bore, 
But  a  homely,  grim  old-timer. 

Aged  sixty  years  or  more. 

120 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

'T  was  the  gun  my  father  shot  with — 

A  blessing  on  his  name! 
If  he  were  in  the  field  today, 

For  any  kind  of  game. 
He  'd  give  you  fellows  cards  and  spades, 

And  beat  you  just  the  same. 

Here  's  the  colonel  with  his  fox  dog, 

He  calls  him  fast  and  sure; 
The  doctor  with  his  blooded  hound. 

Of  pedigree  so  pure. 

Fred  Thurston  with  his  setter, 

Standing  rigid  at  a  point; 
My  father  with  his  old  cur  dog 

Could  discount  the  whole  joint. 

The  old  cur  dog  would  run  a  fox  into  the  ground; 

He  'd  follow  a  track  like  an  English  hound; 
He  had  no  tail,  but  his  head  was  large, 
And  he  never  knew  what  it  was  to  "charge." 

He  'd  tree  a  squirrel  up  so  high 

It  seemed  as  though  he  was  in  the  sky; 

And  hold  him  there  till  my  father's  eye 

Ean  along  "old  London  Twist"; 

Then  down  he  'd  fall,  for  it  never  missed. 

That  old  cur  dog  would  land  a  coon. 
And  keep  him  up  till  the  next  day  noon. 
For  well  he  knew  there  'd  be  some  fun 
"When  father  came  with  that  trusty  gun. 

121 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

That  good  old  dog  would  course  a  hare; 

To  him  all  kinds  of  game  were  fair; 

He  'd  drive  him  thro'  the  snow  and  mist 
Till  he  fell  before  "old  London  Twist." 

That  old  cur  dog  would  flush  a  quail, 
And  spring  and  catch  her  by  the  tail; 

If  feathers  held,  the  game  was  his; 

That  old  cur  dog  he  knew  his  biz. 

One  night  he  barked  'neath  a  stone  wall; 

Tom  Flanders  answered  to  the  call; 
Said  Tom,  "It  's  plain  as  sun  at  noon, 
Old  Bose  at  last  has  walled  a  coon." 

My  father  said,  "You  may  be  right, 
For  coons  are  round  this  time  o'  night; 
If  that  's  the  case,  beyond  a  doubt. 
Why,  we  must  rout  the  varmint  out. 

■'If  he  comes  my  way  I  will  whack  him; 
If  he  comes  by  you,  why,  then  you  crack  him. 
Now  poke  your  head  into  the  hole 
And  punch  and  probe  with  a  stick  or  pole." 

In  went  Tom  with  a  wink  and  blink. 
But  something  in  there  made  him  think 

That  shooting  stars  were  in  the  sky; 

It  struck  him  in  the  mouth  and  eye. 

Blind  and  dazed  he  backward  slunk. 
And  blubbered  out,  "Oh,  God!  a  skunk!" 

Said  father,  "Don't  give  up  the  ghost; 

But,  Tom,  did  it  taste  like  quail  on  toast?" 

122 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Tom  swore  to  lick  all  kingdom  come. 
But  peace  was  made  with  a  mug  of  rum. 

Poor  Tom!    No  eulogy  was  said 
When  you  sank  to  rest  among  the  dead; 
But  I  say  here,  and  I  think  it  true. 
They  've  buried  meaner  men  than  you. 

A  baleful  fate  hung  o'er  your  life; 
They  even  took  your  dog  and  wife; 

No  epitaph  above  your  grave; 

And  thus  I  speak  your  name  to  save. 

I  've  traveled  long  in  a  busy  world. 

Plodded  on  for  many  a  day; 

The  high  and  low,  the  rich  and  poor, 
I  've  met  them  in  my  humble  way. 

And  this  I  say  to  you  tonight, 

In  every  breast  is  a  ray  that  's  bright; 
No  man  on  green  earth  ever  stood, 
Who  loved  the  streams,  the  fields,  and  wood. 
But  had  within  him  something  good. 

Some  latent  spark,  some  ember  bright. 

Burns  in  his  heart,  a  gem  of  light. 


Sometimes  when  the  lawless  boys 
Would  seek  the  melon  patch  to  rob, 

Just  simply  say,  "Go  sick  'em,  Bose," 
And  the  old  cur  dog  was  on  his  job. 

123 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

And  seats  torn  from  their  pantaloons 

Showed  him  good  for  that  as  he  was  for  coons. 

Perhaps  you  think  I  'm  making  fun 

Of  the  good  old  dog  and  the  good  old  gun; 

But  I  look  you  all  straight  in  the  eye, 

For  hunters — do  they  ever  lie? 

Lie!     Why,  hunters  stick  to  truth 

As  virtue  stuck  to  Bible  Euth; 

They  would  no  more  a  true  fact  hush 
Than  raise  a  pot  with  a  bobtail  flush. 

Fond  memories  linger  of  a  man, 

Pure  in  life  as  a  bright  sunbeam; 
He  loved  the  scope  of  Nature's  plan. 

He  loved  the  forest  and  the  stream. 

He  loved  to  tramp  o'er  wooded  hill. 
With  dog  to  hunt  and  gun  to  kill; 

"Old  London  Twist"  to  his  bag  would  bring 
Four-footed  or  two-legged  game, 
It  mattered  not;  't  was  all  the  same. 

Alas,  for  father,  dog,  and  gun! 

They  came  and  went;  their  day  is  done; 
New-fangled  arms  are  on  the  card. 
And  dogs  have  pedigree  by  the  yard. 

Talk  about  your  faithful  Tray, 
Or  dogs  of  any  kind  or  day! 

I  tell  you,  boys,  and  you  won't  demur. 

No  dog  e'er  beat  the  bobtailed  cur. 

124 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

No  stone  tells  where  old  Bose  now  lies; 

Perhaps,  'neath  other,  brighter  skies, 
In  lands  afar,  beyond  the  moon. 
He  's  baying  yet  at  fox  or  coon. 

Sometimes  when  tramping  thro'  the  wild. 
Where  I  roamed  and  played  when  but  a  child, 
I  turn  the  page  of  memory's  log, 
And  tell  the  story  of  the  bobtailed  dog, 

Natt,  my  friend,  we  're  getting  old; 

We  're  verging  toward  the  sunset  gold; 
But  let  us  not  forget  the  joys 
Of  days  when  you  and  I  were  boys. 

Let  us  not  forget  the  fun 

With  father's  bobtailed  dog  and  gun; 

Let  's  swear  in  friendship  to  be  true; 

Old  man,  your  hand;  long  life  to  you. 

Oh,  men  of  the  clan,  as  you  sit  at  the  feast. 
And  boast  the  trophies  of  skill  and  art. 

Be  mindful  of  the  humbler  field 
In  which  your  fathers  played  their  part. 

You  are  standing  at  the  noontide. 

Their  sun  has  left  the  sky; 
But  in  your  manhood  and  your  pride 

Let  not  their  memory  die! 


125 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

The  gun  is  left,  all  else  is  gone. 

But  still  the  tide  of  life  flows  on; 
Flows  on  to  meet  another  age, 
When  someone,  turning  o'er  the  page, 

Shall  read  how  we  in  an  old-time  day 

Plaj'ed  out  our  part  in  an  old-time  way. 

tS^       ^*       t3^       t^^ 

THE  FOX'S  RUNWAY. 

[To  Col.  Arthur  Eastman  Clarke,  companion  of  school  and 
college,  field  and  wood,  I  inscribe  these  lines.] 

Where  the  pine  plumes  wave  on  high 

And  the  maple  banners  fly. 
Where  the  ferns  caress  the  rocks, 

There  's  the  runway  of  the  fox. 

Where  the  meadow  daisies  grow 

And  the  silent  waters  flow. 
Where  the  wood  mouse  makes  its  way,  • 

There  he  seeks  his  humble  prey. 

Close  by  the  lily-crested  pond, 

Where  pickerel  sleep  beneath  the  wave. 

Adown  the  trout  brook  just  beyond. 
His  the  path  that  nature  gave. 

'T  is  night,  and  over  all  the  stars  glow  bright, 
In  tribute  to  the  queenly  moon 

That  gives  the  world 
The  charm  and  beauty  of  her  light. 

126 


BALLAD8  OF  THE  HILLS. 

So  still  that  one  can  almost  hear 

The  breath  of  the  wood  bird  nesting  near; 

So  still  that  voice  of  the  meadow  brook  is  heard 

As  to  the  sea  it  ebbs  its  way. 
And  seems  to  tell  in  murmured  word 

The  story  of  some  other  day. 

No  dog  is  out,  no  man,  no  gun, 

Fit  time  for  the  fox  to  make  his  run. 

'T  is  morn,  and  Nature's  voices  greet  the  day. 
The  red  hawk  screams  across  the  plain. 

From  out  the  oak  calls  brave  blue  jay. 

There  's  incense  in  the  air  that  thrills 
When  the  hunter  treads  the  hills  again. 

Oh,  the  music,  rich,  enchanting, 

When  he  hears  from  far  away 
The  voices  of  the  coursing  hounds 

Upon  the  fox  runway. 

How  the  hot  blood  leaps  within  him. 
How  quick  his  pulse,  how  keen  his  eye; 

The  very  fervor  of  his  being 

Reflects  the  glow  of  morning  sky. 

U^on  this  ancient  runway 

I  linger  every  fall, 
And  wonder  has  he  come  again 

And  do  I  hear  the  call 


127 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Of  him  whose  life  was  radiant 
As  beam  of  morning  sun. 

Who  tramped  the  Warner  hilltops 
With  old-time  dog  and  gun. 

For  sometimes  on  the  breezes 
Come  whispers  soft  and  low. 

Just  as  of  old  he  said  it, 
"The  dogs  are  driving  now, 
That  fox  will  have  to  go." 


Dear  Colonel: 

I  see  our  shadows  lengthen; 

Perhaps  our  hunts  are  o'er; 
The  boat  will  soon  be  waiting 

To  bear  us  from  the  shore. 

Where'er  Fate's  trail  shall  lead  me. 
And  whatsoe'er  she  wills 

My  heart  will  ever  guide  me 
To  the  runway  on  the  hills. 


128 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

THE  OLD  STAGE  COACH. 

[Delivered  at  Webster,  Old  Home  Day.] 

There  must  be  some  alive  today 
Who  remember  old  stage  times, 

The  Concord  coach,  the  six-in-hand. 
And  Dan  Fling  at  the  lines. 

Those  were  hurly-burly  days, 

Of  hurly-burly  men, 
And  ways  and  means  of  travel 

Are  different  now  from  then. 

The  Concord  coach  was  all  in  all; 

There  was  no  iron  road. 
The  engines  were  of  flesh  and  blood; 

Six  horses  drew  the  load. 

Dan  Fling  was  the  engineer. 

Conductor  and  stoker,  too; 
He  took  the  fares  and  checked  the  trunks, 

As  over  the  hills  they  flew. 

They  started  at  the  break  of  day. 
Nor  stopped  'til  evening's  glow; 

The  fliers  made  their  fifty  miles; 
The  "pod  teams"  were  more  slow. 

What  was  a  "pod"?  some  kid  may  ask. 

Who  has  not  been  here  long; 
I  '11  tell  you,  boy,  though  it  may  break 

The  meter  of  my  song, 

129 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

A  "pod  team"  was  a  two-horse  hitch 

Eigged  for  a  heavy  load; 
They  carried  merchandise  and  truck, 

And  camped  beside  the  road. 

They  always  had  a  pot  of  beans. 

And  always  a  stone  jug; 
Their  food  was  served  on  pewter  plates. 

Their  rum  in  pewter  mugs. 

The  drivers  were  a  hardy  crew, 

And  reckless,  too,  with  all; 
They  sang  their  songs  and  cracked  their  jokes. 

And  filled  up  on  "stone  wall." 

They  thought  they  knew  a  thing  or  two; 

They  thought  they  owned  the  road; 
They  thought  they  had  the  right  of  way 

When  they  had  on  a  load. 

But  when  Dan  Fling  came  whirling  on, 

*Tod  teams,  get  out  of  the  way! 
I  '11  run  you  down  and  sink  your  craft," 

Was  what  Dan  Fling  would  say. 

And  so  they  'd  dodge  the  six-horse  hitch, 

And  when  't  had  passed  along. 
They  'd  get  upon  the  road  again 

And  sing  a  pod-team  song. 

The  travelers  in  those  days  of  old 

Were  of  every  class  and  hue; 
Some  wore  the  linsey-woolsey  suit, 

And  some  the  broadcloth  blue. 


130 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

The  politicians  rode  on  top, 

And  in  their  quiet  way 
Elected  governors  and  such, 

And  fixed  things  so  they  'd  stay. 

Inside  the  coach  rode  merchants  proud, 

And  doctors  of  renown. 
And  helles  decked  out  in  bombazine. 

Which  came  from  Boston  town. 

While  on  the  seat  beside  Dan  Fling 
Sometimes  rode  Edmund  Burke,* 

With  the  courage  of  a  Cossack 
And  the  valor  of  a  Turk. 

'T)rive  on!    Drive  on!"    he  'd  say  to  Dan, 
"We  must  make  the  tavern  soon, 
Or  my  friends  on  top  will  die  of  thirst. 
And  wreck  my  Congress  boom." 

So  Dan  would  crack  his  ten-foot  lash, 
Sparks  from  the  hoofs  would  fly. 

Till  lights  shone  thro'  the  village  trees 
Like  stars  in  the  summer  sky. 

Landed  at  the  hotel  steps, 
"Old  Boniface"  is  there; 
"The  gentlemen,  this  way,"  says  he, 
"The  ladies  pass  upstairs." 

And  so  they  sought  the  taproom  first — 
Can  any  one  guess  what  for? 

Ah!  in  those  days,  the  sale  of  grog 
Was  not  ruled  by  license  law, — 


•  At  one  time  member  of  Congress  from  New  Hampshire. 

131 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

And  politicians  loved  their  tod. 

As  Isaac  Walton  loved  his  rod. 
How  is  it  now?     To  get  a  smile 

You  may  travel  many  a  weary  mile. 
And  then,  if  two  or  three  are  took, 

Your  name  goes  on  the  dry-list  book. 

Sometimes  in  the  swirl  of  the  human  tide 

Daniel  Webster  to  town  would  ride; 
Godlike  Webster,  before  or  since. 

No  man  has  lived  who  could  with  him  fence. 

And  when  he  passed  from  human  ken, 

The  world  was  lonesome  without  "Black  Dan"; 

He  loved  the  spots  where  the  daisies  grew; 
He  loved  his  farm  and  birthplace,  too. 

He  loved  the  view  of  old  Kearsarge, 

And  the  fields  and  meadows  grand  and  large. 

0,  Webster!  why  did  they  leave  your  bones 
'Neath  the  sandy  soil  where  the  sad  sea  moans? 

Far  better  to  lie  'neath  the  elm  tree  blithe. 
Where  in  boyhood  days  you  hung  your  scythe, 

Where  first  you  opened  those  wondrous  eyes. 

On  New  Hampshire  soil,  'neath  New  Hampshire  skies. 

In  death,  as  in  life,  the  knell  of  fate 

Eings  over  your  name  the  words,  "Too  late." 

Too  late  for  life's  best  boon  of  God, 
Too  late  in  death  for  your  native  sod. 


132 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

But  the  bugle  calls,  the  coach  is  up. 
And  Dan  Fling  has  the  reins; 

"We  '11  soon  be  bowling  o'er  the  hills 
And  whirling  o'er  the  plains. 

Over  the  hills  to  a  better  land. 

Over  the  plains  to  rest. 
And  after  all,  this  human  scheme 

Is  a  stage  coach  ride  at  best. 

'T  is  up  and  down  the  grades  of  time, 

And  thro'  the  valley  of  fate. 
But  somehow  by  the  grace  of  God, 

We  get  there  soon  or  late. 

No  more  as  in  the  olden  times 

We  hear  the  drivers  sing, 
No  more  the  crack  of  the  ten-foot  lash 

Of  that  famous  Jehu,  Fling. 

But  maybe  in  the  great  Beyond, 

Where  daylight  never  dies. 
The  Concord  coach  and  the  six-in-hand 

Are  whirling  through  the  skies. 

%3*        (5*        ^*        ^w 

HENRY  M.  PUTNEY. 
(Better  known  as  "Put.") 

Not  a  handsome  man,  by  any  means. 
Not  a  Brummel  dude  or  beau; 

To  fashion's  dilletanti 
A  blunt,  outspoken  foe. 

133 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Not  adept  in  soft  caressing, 
Or  in  fawning  words  and  ways; 

If  he  wants  a  thing  he  gets  it, 
And,  whate'er  the  price,  he  pays. 

Tho'  his  enemies  abuse  him 
'Til  the  controversy  dies, 

They  cannot  say  he  whimpers; 
They  cannot  say  he  lies. 

A  good  lover  and  good  hater; 

As  everybody  knows. 
He  is  steadfast  in  his  friendships. 

Relentless  to  his  foes. 

Had  he  been  a  major-general, 
'Neath  war  clouds  sullen  pall. 

He  'd  have  held  the  post  of  danger, 
Tho'  he  saw  the  heavens  fall. 

And  tho'  in  many  a  scrimmage, 
'Mid  sturdy  blow  and  welt; 

No  enemy  could  say  of  him 
He  struck  below  the  belt. 

There  's  much  that  I  admire 
In  this  warrior,  grim  and  bold; 

He  is  made  of  iron  fibre. 
Cast  in  heroic  mold. 

As  once  was  said  of  the  Devil, 

So  now  I  say  to  you. 
Grind  out  his  grist  and  take  the  toll. 
Then  give  old  "Put"  his  due. 
Septembeb,  1906. 

134 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


THE  ABANDONED  FARM. 

Gloomy  and  sad  is  the  old  home  now, 
Where  once  was  gladsome  cheer. 

When  the  farmer  of  the  olden  time 
Found  joy  and  plenty  here. 

His  fields  were  broad;  the  soil  was  rich 

And  yielded  to  the  plow;     / 
Abundant  crops  grew  every  year; 

Those  fields  are  woodland  now. 

The  pastured  hills  that  echoed  back 

The  lowing  of  the  cow — 
A  dreary  waste — are  crowded  with 

The  red-plumed  sumac  now. 

Under  that  rooftree  grim  and  chill. 
The  heart  once  beat  with  heroic  thrill. 
Of  him  who  heard  the  danger  call. 
And  at  the  signal  yielded  all. 

The  flood  tide  ebbed  in  battle  strife. 
The  boon  he  gave  was  a  sweet  young  life. 
A  father's  hope,  a  mother's  pride, 
Ah,  many  a  boy  like  him  has  died! 

God  bless  the  flag 

Above  their  graves! 
God  bless  the  land 

They  fought  to  save! 


135 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Here,  musing  by  the  lone  hearthstone, 
I  call  on  dear  names,  one  by  one. 

Some  from  the  realm  of  eternal  rest, 
Some  from  the  distant,  boundless  west. 

Again  they  seem  to  gather  near. 
And  each  to  the  roll  call  answers,  "Here!" 
Their  spirits  by  a  potent  charm 
Eeturn  once  more  to  the  dear  old  farm. 

Abandoned,  desolate,  and  drear, 
No  more  the  goodly  farmhouse  cheer. 
Thro'  ruined  walls  and  sunken  roof, 
I  see  fate's  shuttle,  warp  and  woof. 

Still  grows  the  lilac  in  the  yard; 

The  rose  still  blossoms  by  the  door; 
Still  flashes  tiger  lily  bloom. 

But  those  who  loved  them  come  no  more. 

Perchance  in  some  far  western  land 
A  weary  man  looks  back  with  pain, 

As  his  heart  recalls  the  old-time  home. 
Which  he  will  never  see  again. 

Never  in  life;  but  still,  perhaps, 

When  souls  are  free  to  go  their  way. 

The  loved  of  old  may  come  again 
And  rest  beneath  the  gables  gray. 
July,  1904. 


136 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


THE  WILD  BIRD'S  SONG. 

Bird  of  song  upon  the  treetop, 
Singing  notes  so  free  and  glad. 

Ah!  't  is  often  when  I  listen 
That  my  weary  heart  is  sad. 

Sad  to  think  of  joys  and  freedom 
That  the  Maker  showers  on  thee, 

While  my  life  is  dark  and  gloomy. 
As  its  sorrows  come  to  me. 

Wild  bird,  thou  dost  teach  a  lesson 
To  the  weary,  faint,  and  weak, 

That  to  all  there  must  come  blessings. 
Who  hope  with  faith  and  bravely  seek. 

Naught   forgetting,   naught   rememb'ring. 

Joyous  singing  every  day, 
Nothing  gaining,  nothing  losing. 

Nature's  wild,  free,  careless  way. 

Oh!  be  with  me,  gentle  singer. 

As  I  strive  myself  to  save, 
Sing  along  my  rugged  pathway. 

Make  me  firm  and  strong  and  brave. 


137 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

TO  MY  OLD  FRIEND. 

(S.   C.   C.) 

Come,  Steve,  sit  down  along  with  me; 

Let  's  talk  the  old  times  o'er — 
A  thing  we  surely  have  not  done 

For  thirty  years  or  more. 

Old  man,  the  cycles  roll  around 

At  electric  motor  gait, 
And  in  the  frenzy  of  the  whirl 

We  've  both  been  touched  by  fate. 

We  've  kept  above  the  tide  of  time. 

And  battled  with  the  wave, 
Tho'  many  have  been  left  behind 

We  'd  give  our  lives  to  save. 

Today  throw  trouble  to  the  winds; 

Let  cares  and  duties  go  their  way; 
'T  is  only  once  in  thirty  years 

We  have  our  memory  day. 

Call  back  the  boys  who  rushed  the  ball 
On  the  old  brick  schoolhouse  grounds; 

Some  still  are  in  the  race  of  life; 
More  sleep  'neath  churchyard  mounds. 

Call  back  the  girls  who  urged  us  on 
With  words  of  hope  and  cheer; 

Their  voices  faded  long  ago; 
But  few  are  with  us  here. 

138 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

I  hear  the  roll-call  often  now, 
When  the  night  winds  o'er  me  hlow. 

Just  as  it  came  from  the  master's  lips. 
So  many  years  ago. 

The  answer  of  the  living  ones 

Comes  dimly  from  afar. 
While  many  a  name  upon  the  list 

Now  bears  a  fatal  star. 

We  wait  our  turn;  *t  will  come  ere  long, 

And  when  we  have  to  go 
I  hope  they  '11  toll  the  schoolhouse  bell 

We  heard  so  long  ago. 
Januaby,  1903. 

^*        (5*        (5*        t^* 

TO    AUNT    EUNICE    CHASE,     ON    HER    EIGHTIETH 
BIRTHDAY. 
Eighty  years! 

And  yet  no  chilling  wind  or  winter  snow. 

But  sunlight  glad,  above,  below; 
Still  on  the  hills  the  leaves  are  green. 

And  flowers  bloom  where  the  waters  flow. 

Still  glows  from  out  the  clear,  brave  eye 

The  light  of  love  and  truth, 
And  mantles  o'er  the  pure,  sweet  face 

The  rose-blush  tint  of  youth. 

You  nobly  wrought  in  life's  broad  field; 

You  sowed  good  seed;  good  works  were  thine; 
Now  yours  the  vintage  that  they  yield; 

The  ripened  clusters  load  the  vine. 

139 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Your  mission,  ever  cherished,  dear, 
To  dry  on  sorrow's  face  the  tear; 

To  make  the  faint  heart  strong  and  true. 
And  all  the  world  seem  more  like  you. 

Tonight  I  render  thanks  and  praise 
For  your  cheering,  hopeful,  loving  ways. 

My  teacher,  just  as  fond  and  true 
As  in  those  gladsome  olden  days. 

At  every  morn  new  spirit  comes. 

And  when  the  evening  shadows  fall. 

You  rest  in  hliss  of  health  and  faith. 
Sustained  by  One  who  cares  for  all. 

May  your  life  be  blessed  with  gems  of  love, 
Bestowed  by  that  kind  Friend  above! 

And  here  or  there,  as  He  may  will. 
Its  sacred  destiny  fulfill! 

I  know  you  're  ever  thinking 

As  you  walk  the  silent  shore. 
Of  him  who  left  you  long  ago 

And  passed  along  before. 

Of  the  blessed,  heavenly  strength. 

His  fond  life  to  you  gave, 
Of  his  glad  and  fervid  welcome 

When  you  cross  the  misty  wave. 

He  lingers  in  the  meadows, 

"Where  flowers  ever  grow. 
And  waits  for  you  beside  the  stream. 

Where  the  purling  waters  flow. 

140 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

And  when  the  sere  leaves  on  the  hill 
Proclaim  that  winter  night  is  nigh, 

When  the  gentle  heart  is  still. 

Strength  leaves  the  pulse,  and  sight  the  eye. 

Oh,  then,  he  '11  greet,  caress  yon, 

'Neath  celestial,  sacred  sheen, 
And  you  '11  walk  with  him  forever 

Glad  paths  in  pastures  green. 

Spoken,  thoughts  of  love  and  friendship, 
Badiant  with  the  soul's  pure  light; 

Loyal  hearts  beat  warm  around  you; 
Take  them;  they  are  yours  tonight. 

This  our  cheer,  our  word  of  greeting. 

This  the  tribute  that  we  give: 
God  bless  you,  friend,  oh  long  be  with  us! 

And  ever  may  your  memory  live! 

t^^         (5*         ^*         (5^ 

WEDDING  BENEDICTA. 

[To  Ned  and   Margaret.] 

As  mute  reminders  of  affection 

That  ever  in  our  hearts  shall  stay. 

Your  friends  and  kindred  pass  these  tokens 
With  the  hand  of  love  today. 

Take  them,  children,  keep  them  ever. 

And  as  life-days  pass  along 
May  the  fervor  of  your  being 

Glow  as  nectar  pure  and  strong. 

141 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Flowers  all  along  your  pathway 

Bloom  forever  as  in  May, 
And  the  wild  birds  in  the  treetops 

Sing  their  cheery  morning  lay. 

Dear  young  friends,  may  love  and  fortune 

Ever  guide  you  on  your  way. 
And  whate'er  may  be  your  portion, 

Here  's  hope  and  cheer  from  us  today! 

c5*        t^%        t^*        t?* 

MY   FRIEND. 

He  walks  with  me 

In  pastures  green, 
And  through  the  woods 

In  shadows  cool. 

He  leads  me 

Over  templed  hills. 
And  by  the  purling, 

Bubbling  pool. 

He  rests  with  me 

On  mossy  mound; 
Such  peace  can  nowhere  else 

Be  found. 

Such  tranquil  joy 

Is  never  given, 
As  there  to  sleep 

And  dream  of  heaven. 


142 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

I  trust  in  Him; 

He  is  my  Friend; 
My  faith  is  strong 

Unto  the  end. 

And  tho'  His  face 

I  cannot  see, 
I  feel  Him  always 

Near  to  me. 

He  's  near  in  gladness 

And  in  pain; 
His  promised  aid 

Is  not  in  vain. 

Forever  near,  tho'  never  seen, 

He  walks  with  me 
Life's  pastures  green. 

Decembee,  1906. 

^*         t^w         ^*         ^* 

SENTIMENTS  OF  A  CLASSMATE. 

We  meet  once  more,  as  in  the  old  time. 
With  fervent  clasp  of  loyal  hand, 

Here  to  pledge  again  the  honor 
Of  our  dear  devoted  band. 

May  we  drink  it  with  a  promise 
Of  faithful  heart  and  loving  eye. 

That  the  bond  shall  e'er  grow  stronger 
Till  we  join  the  boys  on  high. 

143 


BALLADH  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Here  'mid  Yuletide  joys  and  blessings, 
Gifts  of  fortune,  fruits  of  fame. 

We  vow  that  we  will  cherish  fondly 
Our  loved  and  honored  old  class  name. 

We,  yet  living,  hopeful,  winning. 
Striving  on  o'er  life's  rough  ways. 

Oh  may  we  hold  in  mem'ry  ever 
The  loves  and  joys  of  college  days. 

Decembeb  27,  1906. 

^*       i^^       %3^       %2^ 

THE   MASTER. 

The  winds  of  God  blow  on  and  on, 

His  waters  ne'er  recede, 
And  all  in  their  own  way  pursue 

The  trend  of  human  need. 

His  mighty  forces  turn  the  wheels. 
The  tides  of  commerce  ebb  and  flow. 

And  by  their  aid  the  wage  is  earned. 
As  cycles  come  and  go. 

I  wot  not  why  weak  man  should  say, 
"We  know  not  of  His  care," 

When  from  Him  we  receive  each  day 
Life's  treasures  rich  and  rare. 


144 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


•COMPANY    G. 


[Dedicated   to   John  D.    Colby,   in   memory   of  the   old 
Warner  home.] 

We  called  ourselves  "Company  G," 

We  fellows  who  used  to  loaf 

By  the  grim  old  bulkhead  door. 

Swap  lies  about  our  strings  of  fish, 

Tell  cooning  yarns,  galore. 

Waiting  for  orders  to  "fall  in" 

From  our  grand,  brave  captain,  John  D. 

And  he  was  grand. 

For  in  that  remote  corner 

Of  the  dear  old  town,  sacred  to  some, 

Whose  hearts  with  pleasure 

Its  memory  fills. 

There  were  none  like  him; 

He  was  surely  monarch  of  the  hills. 

This  captain  of  "Company  G." 

We  were  not  regulars  of  the  line. 

With  equipage  and  toggery  fine. 

And  regimentals  cap-a-pie; 

We  were  plain  and  simple  "Company  G." 

Our  rendezvous  was  the  old  bulkhead. 
In  shade  of  the  poplar  tree; 
'T  was  there  we  met  for  daily  drill 
At  the  morning  reveille. 

145 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Somehow  it  all  comes  back  to  me; 
I  hear  their  stories  o'er. 
The  repartee,  the  old  heart  songs, 
Of  those  who  used  to  gather  there. 
But  gather,  ah,  no  more. 

I  've  heard  the  sweetest  singers 
Of  high-keyed  opera  lays, 
Neilson  in  her  choicest  notes. 
And  Carey's  roundelays. 

But  my  ear  has  never  caught  a  sound. 
In  fifty  years  and  more. 
Which  waked  such  echoes  in  my  heart 
As  those  songs  at  the  bulkhead  door. 

The  chorus  ringing  o'er  the  hills, 
E'er  swelling  louder,  wider. 
Was  followed  by  the  stern  command, 
"Company  G  fall  in  for  rations;" 
That  meant  for  us  sweet  cider. 

It  was  in  the  tightly  bunged  up  cask. 
The  best  of  all  in  town. 
And  at  the  word,  thro'  the  bulkhead  door. 
Would  "Company  G"  "fall  down." 

I  've  tested  vintage  of  the  Ehine, 
Madeira's  pure  and  grand  old  wine. 
And  for  medicine  a  Scotch  night-cap, 
But  never  nectar  passed  my  lips 
Like  the  old  bulkhead's  sweet  cider  tap. 

146 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

It  was  just  a  happy  soubriquet, 

This  title,  "Company  G," 

But  we  loved  it  more  than  Masonic  rank 

Of  thirty-third  degree. 

There  was  no  black  list  and  no  black  ball; 

"We  were  staunch  and  loyal,  one  and  all. 

We  used  to  gather  there  at  noon. 
Hot,  tired,  hungry,  dry. 
When  the  haying  job  was  on. 
And  the  dogstar  climbed  on  high. 

Just  before  the  dinner  bell 
Eung  forth  with  welcome  din. 
And  wait  our  captain's  order, 
"Company  G,  fall  in!" 

And  so  again  that  chosen  band. 

Deserving  of  renown. 

Would  duck  their  heads. 

For  the  door  was  low. 

And  immediately  "fall  down." 

I  \e  tramped  a  little  in  my  day. 
Sampled  landlords  in  my  way. 
Tried  Hooper  at  the  Granite  House 
And  Whipple  at  Touraine, 
And  then  returned  with  sober  steps 
To  the  dear  old  farm  again. 

Nowhere  a  better  man  to  see 

Than  the  captain  of  old  "Company  G," 

That  Nature's  child, 

My  long-time,  cherished  friend,  John  D. 

147 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

We  're  sailing,  sailing  ever  on, 
Stormtossed  by  an  angry  sea. 
By  landmarks  of  the  olden  time. 
Dear  to  the  heart  of  you  and  me; 
And  as  I  float  o'er  the  waters  wide, 
And  pass  loved  features  on  every  side. 
On  memory's  disc  I  cannot  see 
A  fonder  spot  than  the  old  bulkhead. 
The  camping  ground  of  "Company  G." 

August,  1907. 

%^^  X^^  fe?*  ft?* 

THE   QUAKERS. 

[Eead   at   the    Weare   Old   Home   Day   celebration,    Au- 
gust 22,  1907.     Dedicated  to  the  Hon.  Jesse  M.  Gove.] 

Out  from  centuries  of  conflict, 
From  din  of  clashing  creeds. 
From  age  of  persecution, 
Which  he  must  know  who  reads. 

From  the  scourge  of  inquisition. 
When  truth  fell  beneath  its  ban. 
From  the  turmoil  of  dark  ages. 
Came  the  simple  Quaker  clan. 

As  fond  and  true  as  the  Christ  they  love. 
As  clear  in  faith  as  the  skies  above. 
As  pure  in  life  as  our  mountain  rills, 
As  loyal  as  our  steadfast  hills. 

348 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

No  cant  or  carp  at  other  ways, 

No  ceremonial  form  or  maze; 

With  heart  and  cheer  for  him  who  strives. 

And  ritual  simple  as  their  lives. 

Jesse,  does  thee  remember 
The  good  old  Quaker  days. 
Their  steadfast,  honest,  sober  faith, 
Their  kindly  deeds,  and  quiet  ways. 

Their  loyal  hearts,  their  love  of  peace? 
But  when  treason's  act  was  do,ne. 
How  manfully  the  Quaker  boys 
Stood  up  behind  the  guns! 

Does  thee  doubt  my  word? 
Take  a  step  or  two, 
Bead  from  yon  scroll  of  fame. 
In  golden  text  on  honor's  list, 
Full  many  a  Quaker  name. 

Yes,  the  Goves  are  there, 

Dan  Johnson,  who  fought  at  Malvern  Hill, 

Valentine  Chase  and  Eddie  Cram, 

Their  memory  lingers  still. 

And  dozens  more  whom  freedom's  call 
Led  like  the  voice  of  God; 
Some  rest  on  northern  hillsides; 
Some  sleep  'neath  southern  sod. 

They  did  their  duty  bravely,  well; 
Struck  shackles  from  the  slave; 
And  ever  o'er  their  silent  homes 
The  dear  old  flag  shall  wave. 

149 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Does  thee  remember  Moses  Sawyer? 
His  name  suggests  a  chapter 
Of  anti-slavery  lore: 
One  night  a  trembling  negro  slave 
Knocked  softly  at  his  door. 
"Come  in/'  he  said,  "thee  's  welcome; 
Have  food;  I  know  thy  wants, 

"Whate'er  befall  to  me  or  mine, 
I  '11  see  thee  safe  across  the  line," 
He  did;  and  freedom's  mantle  to  the  negro  came. 
Tor  that  one  act,  if  nothing  more, 
God  bless  the  grand  old  Quaker's  name! 

I  will  say  in  this  presence, 
At  this  time,  in  this  place. 
That  man  was  Fred  Douglass, 
The  champion  hero  of  his  race. 

Does  thee  think  of  Zephaniah? 
We  boys  all  loved  him  in  our  way; 
He  always  had  a  word  of  cheer, 
Something  good  to  do  or  say; 
However  dark  the  sombre  cloud, 
He  saw  thro'  it  the  light  of  day. 

Always  hopeful,  planning,  striving, 

Ever  looking  for  the  best; 

There  passed  from  earth  a  faithful  toiler 

When  his  light  went  out 

And  he  found  rest. 

150 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

An  honest  heart,  a  spotless  life. 
Of  grand,  high  moral  tone; 
The  trees  he  loved  at  Granite  Farm 
Are  lonesome  now  he  's  gone. 

Charlie,  I  want  to  say  to  thee. 
As  thee  loves  thy  father's  name, 
Preserve  the  sacred  manor  home 
In  memory  of  the  dear  lost  ones. 
And  when  at  last  thee  falls  on  sleep 
Pass  it  along  unto  thy  sons. 

And,  Jesse,  when  thee  sits  at  eve,  and  thinks  and 

thinks  and  thinks. 
While  the  somhre  voices  of  the  night 
Call  over  hill  and  mead. 
And  shadows  of  old  friends  draw  near. 
Oh,  drop  a  tear  in  memory 
Of  Zephaniah  Breed. 

A  simple  act  of  a  noble  heart. 
But  I  sometimes  think  our  little  deeds  of  love 
Make  those  more  glad  who  've  found  their  rest 
In  the  other  life  above. 

Does  thee  ever  call  on  Eunice  Chase 

At  the  little  corner  store? 

She  's  not  a  Quaker,  but  a  friend  to  all. 

Her  memory  is  a  volume 

Of  rare,  quaint  story  and  of  lore. 

151 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Her  great  heart  filled  with  love  and  cheery 
Her  noble  works  seem  never  done. 
God  bless  her!    I  have  worshiped  her 
Ever  since  she  taught  the  school 
'Way  back  in  sixty-one. 

Go  there,  Jesse;  sit  beneath  her  spell; 

Thee  '11  feel  the  spirit  in  thee  move 

As  legends  of  old  times  she  '11  tell; 

And  when  thee  thinks  of  her  works  of  love 

And  life  of  holy  cheer, 

Thee  '11  say  with  me,  as  I  say  now, 

We  have  an  angel  with  us  here. 

In  the  camping  ground  of  fame, 
On  her  laurel-crested  hills. 
Full  many  a  noble  Quaker  name 
A  silent  tent  of  honor  fills. 

No  purer  word,  no  sweeter  thought 
E'er  uttered  by  the  lips  of  men 
Than  language  of  a  heart  of  love 
That  flowed  at  will  from  Whittier's  pen. 

Another  left  on  the  path  of  time 

A  footprint  deep  and  strong; 

We  see  it  now  as  we  tread  the  way, 

Tho'  years  and  years  have  gone 

Since  he  waved  his  hand 

As  the  boat  sailed  on 

Across  the  waters  wide. 

Till  it  reached  the  shore. 

With  its  precious  freight, 

Beyond  the  sunset  tide. 

152 


BALLADS  OF  THE  BILLS. 

I  wonder  now,  in  his  phantom  tent, 
Does  he  our  memory  tribute  know? 
Hear  the  voice  of  worthy  fame 
As  it  echoes  through  the  passing  years 
And  honors  Moses  Cartland's  name? 

But,  Friends,  thee  may  be  weary, 
And  the  night  is  coming  on; 
Ere  shadows  rest  upon  the  hills 
I  '11  read  to  thee  a  song. 

The    Old   Fireside. 

I  call  old  faces  back  again. 

Old  friends,  once  more  I  take  your  hands; 

The  dear  ones  of  the  long  ago 

Come  to  my  heart,  a  memory  grand. 

Where'er  they  rest  on  time's  dim  track, 

I  call  them  back,  I  call  them  back. 

The  blessed  circle  of  the  home! 

And  there  the  sons  who  loved  to  roam, 

However  good  or  ill  betide. 

Were  welcomed  back  to  the  old  fireside. 

What  cheer  it  gave  with  its  ruddy  rays; 

No  star  e'er  seemed  so  bright  on  high 

As  the  beacon  light  of  the  wood  fire  blaze. 

The  altar  where  their  prayers  were  said, 
The  Mecca  of  their  loves  and  vows, 
How  clearly  through  the  past  it  glows! 
I  see  it  plainly  burning  now. 

153 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Had  I  the  artist's  magic  skill, 
The  touch  of  genius,  I  would  trace, 
That  all  the  world  might  see  again. 
The  dear,  old-fashioned  fireplace. 

Had  I  the  precious  gift  of  song, 

I  'd  chant  the  notes  of  love  and  praise 

I  heard  so  many  years  ago 

Before  the  backlog's  ruddy  blaze. 

And  were  it  mine  to  go  beyond, 
And  talk  with  loyed  ones  o'er  the  wave, 
I  'd  tell  them,  while  I  've  yet  the  strength, 
I  '11  guard  the  treasures  that  they  gave — 

Treasures  of  the  mind  and  heart. 
Borne  unto  us  upon  life's  tide. 
Sweetest,  dearest  of  them  all 
Are  memories  of  the  old  fireside. 


Oh,  loyal,  loving,  cherished  Friends! 

Let  not  our  hearts  grow  cold. 

But  warmer,  ever  warmer, 

As  the  dial  points  to  sunset. 

As  years  pass  on  and  we  grow  old! 


154 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


OLD   SALISBURY. 


Old  Salisbury,  God  bless  you 
For  what  you  have  been! 

Old  Salisbury,  God  bless  you 
For  what  you  are! 

Salisbury,  old  Salisbury, 
From  the  Revolution  dawn, 

Your  history  teems  with  tales 
Of  the  deeds  of  heroic  men. 

The  smoke  which  curled  over  Bunker  Hill 
Shaded  the  brows  of  Salisbury  men. 

They  stood  in  battle  line  at  Bennington; 
They  died  of  hunger  and  cold  at  Valley  Forge. 

They  charged  the  bloody  heights  of  Fredericksburg; 
They  met  Pickett  at  Cemetery  Eidge. 

Salisbury,  old  Salisbury, 

You  have  emblazoned  on  your  crest 

A  galaxy  of  historic  names, 

The  Websters,  the  Bartletts, 
The  Pingrees  and  the  Eastmans. 

;Men  whose  words  and  deeds,  ; ' 

In  the  forum  and  in  the  school, 

155 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

In  the  pulpit  and  on  the  battlefield. 
Have  added  lustre  to  the  name, 

And  made  brighter  the  fame 

Of  the  town,  the  state,  and  the  republic. 

And  while  the  eagle  screams  on  Kearsarge, 
"While  the  waters  of  your  river 
Flow  down  to  the  sea;" 

While  your  men  teach  their  sons. 
As  their  fathers  taught  them, 

To  honor  the  old  flag 

And  defend  the  institutions 

O'er  which  it  waves. 

The  star  of  your  glory 
Shall  never  burn  dim. 

^»         (,?•         c?*         *!?• 

TO    MOSES    GAGE   SHIRLEY,    ON    HIS   FORTY-THIRD 
BIRTHDAY,  MAY  15,  1908. 

My  Friend, 

The  incense  of  her  blossoms 

Makes  sweet  the  air  of  May; 
It  cheers  you,  as  you  tread  the  hills, 

On  this  your  natal  day. 

Your  songs  are  of  the  mountain. 

As  chaste  in  word  and  tone 

\s  Whittier's  of  the  Bear-camp, 

Or  Burns's  of  Bonnie  Doon. 

156 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Long  may  your  voice  amid  the  hills 

Like  wild  birds'  call  arise. 
And  beauteous  flowers  at  Sunnyside 

Make  glad  your  loving  eyes. 

(^W         (5*         ^*         <5* 

BEYOND  THE  SEA. 

A  bird  flew  from  the  sky  one  morn. 
When  flashed  the  glory  of  the  dawn; 
A  note  of  love  he  sung  to  me. 
The  love  of  one  beyond  the  sea. 

The  waveless,  tideless,  phantom  sea. 

A  friend  whose  life  was  glad  with  song, 
Now  gone  so  long,  now  gone  so  long. 

I  said,  "Does  he  e'er  wish  for  me. 
My  friend  of  friends  beyond  the  sea?" 

**He  sighs  for  thee;  he  sighs  for  thee; 
He  sighs  in  his  tent  beside  the  sea." 

Fly  back,  fly  back,  while  yet  't  is  morn. 
Across  the  golden  bar  once  more; 
Fly  back  'til  you  meet  my  friend  again. 
My  friend  in  his  tent  upon  the  shore, 

And  tell  him  when  the  sun  goes  down. 
And  earth  no  more  has  charms  for  me, 
I  '11  come  to  him,  I  '11  come  to  him, 
Beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sea. 
157 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

WRITTEN  IN  MEMORY  OF  LADY  GRAY. 

[To  my  cousins,  Herman  F.  and  Sophronia  E.  Badger.] 

She  had  no  blazoned  pedigree, 

No  record  had  she  spoiled. 
But  still  she  left  a  memory  dear 

To  those  who  with  her  toiled. 

Tho'  faithful,  patient,  loving, 
She  could  not  speak  her  heart; 

'T  was  hers  to  do  her  master's  will 
And  humbly  act  her  part. 

And  ever  when  in  harness. 

In  field  or  on  the  road, 
Whate'er  the  task  she  did  it  well, 

She  bore  the  heavy  load. 


Alas!  the  wrecked,  abandoned  home. 
What  mem'ries  linger  still 

Of  those  who  in  the  long  ago 
Lived  on  the  dear  old  hill! 

Go  sit  beneath  the  maples, 
They  may  come  again  today. 

And  in  her  old  familiar  place 
You  may  see  Lady  Gray. 

158 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Ah,  no,  't  is  but  a  fancy; 

We  linger  for  their  call — 
No  voice  is  heard,  no  step  draws  near. 

And  empty  is  her  stall. 

Plod  on  again  your  journey 

Wherever  duty  wills. 
And  somewhere  you  may  meet  them  all. 

The  loved  ones  of  the  hills. 

But  when  the  winter  winds  blow  wild 

Alopg  the  weary  way, 
And  fierce  the  storm  and  dark  the  night. 

You'll  sigh  for  Lady  Gray. 
September,  1908. 

^*        ^*        t^^        t^* 

TO  MR.  SAMUEL  B.  HOPE. 

Eighty  glad  and  happy  years! 

How  softly  came  each  day! 
How  broke  the  morning,  bright  with  hope! 

How  paled  the  evening  gray! 

How  burst  the  springtime  into  green! 

How  bright  the  summer  glow! 
How  gorgeous  was  the  autumn  sheen! 

How  white  the  winter  snow! 

You  've  drunk  life's  wine. 

You  've  ate  its  fruit, 
And  now  in  peace  you  live. 
Serene  in  hope,  with  faith  sublime. 

And  wait  what  God  may  give. 

150 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Behind,  the  beams  of  morning  light 

Glow  dimly  and  afar. 
While  in  the  west,  o'er  burnished  cloud. 

Shines  bright  the  evening  star. 

My  friend,  you  saw  the  springtime 
And  the  summer  glories  go; 

And  now  you  hear  glad  winter  bells 
Eing  o'er  the  glistening  snow. 

It  is  not  mine  to  look  beyond 
And  pierce  the  shadows  thro', 

But,  Uncle  Sam,  somehow  I  feel, 
'T  will  all  be  well  with  you! 
*T  will  all  be  well  with  you! 

t^^         t^f         t^*         t^* 

GOUGEVILLE. 

Kismet,  you  ask  me  to  locate. 
Somewhere  within  our  grand  old  state, 
A  town  or  city  out  of  date. 
Called  Gougeville. 

I  '11  make  an  effort  now  to  do  it 
To  please  a  valued  friend  and  poet, 
Otherwise  I  would  eschew  it. 
For  what  care  I 

For  Gougeville? 

So  here  this  morn  at  four  o'clock 
I  set  aside  my  matin  walk, 
And  cut  in  two  my  morning  nap. 
That  I  may  locate  on  the  map 
Old  Gougeville. 

160 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

So  clear  I  '11  picture  to  your  mind. 
Like  signboard  swinging  in  the  wind. 
That  the  wayfaring  man,  though  a  fool,  can  find 
Grim  Gougeville. 

Less  than  three  miles  from  Joe  English's  brow. 
As  flies  the  crow,  sou'west  by  sou', 
By  a  stream  that  would  hardly  float  a  scow. 
Is  Gougeville. 

To  New  Boston  town  its  tax  is  paid. 
In  New  Boston  soil  its  bones  are  laid, 
The  winds  blow  o'er  it  with  a  sigh. 
The  lucktide  flood  has  passed  it  by. 
Lone  Gougeville. 

It  once  could  boast  a  busy  mill, 
A  church,  a  store  and  schoolhouse,  too. 
But  panic  struck  it  long  ago, 
And  its  star  of  fortune  sank  from  view. 
Gone  Gougeville. 

Now  sway  is  held  by  grim  wharf  rats, 
With  grewsome  neighbors,  owls  and  bats; 
Fit  emblems  of  abandoned  town. 
Fit  emblems  of  its  sun  gone  down. 
Deserted  Gougeville. 

If  Goldsmith,  otherwise  called  "Noll," 
Could  walk,  a  ghost,  the  old  street  down, 
And  see  the  gloomy,  solemn  pall 
That  hovers  o'er  it  like  a  frown, 

He  'd  murmur, 
"This  beats  my  'deserted  town,' 

Alas  for  Gougeville!" 

161 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

I  think  Joe  English,  grim  and  brave. 
Would  smile,  if  from  her  silent  grave. 
Could  rise  again  her  name  to  save. 
Poor  Gougeville! 

From  "Colby  Crest"  Frog  Eock  looks  down 
Upon  a  saddened,  ruined  town: 
Gone  the  village,  gone  the  mill, 
All  gone  but  Frog  Rock  on  the  hill. 
And  if  in  stone  grief  had  a  place. 
Tears  would  course  down  its  granite  face. 
For  GougeviUe. 

%^^       ^*       ^^       ^5^ 

GOOD  NIGHT. 

Good  night,  my  friend,  the  vespers  call. 
And  shadows  of  the  evening  fall. 

Good  night,  until  the  God  of  day 
Paints  the  hills  with  golden  ray. 

Good  night,  for  now  the  stars  on  high 
Light  up  the  vast  realm  of  the  sky. 

The  smile  of  heaven  they  seem  to  be. 
And  promise  of  rest  for  you  and  me. 

Good  night,  awaken  in  the  morn 
Fresh  at  the  breaking  of  the  dawn. 

Fresh  to  journey  on  your  way. 
Strong  for  the  duties  of  the  day. 

'Neath  soothing  smile  of  pale  star  light, 
I  leave  you  now,  good  night,  good  night. 

162 


Why  do  you  sing,   'Squog  River  " 

—  See  page  35 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


GOOD  MORNING! 


When  night  has  passed  and  day  has  come 

With  the  glory  of  its  dawning, 

We  greet  our  friends  with  a  happy  smile 
And  the  cheery  word,  "Good  morning'/* 

No  Oriental  salam, 

No  courtly  gesture  grand. 
The  simple  words,  "Good  morning," 

And  friendship's  kindly  hand. 

There  's  warmth  and  fervor  in  it. 
There  's  faith  from  true  hearts  born. 

There  's  honor  in  the  hand-clasp 
Of  friends  at  early  morn. 

Oh  sweet  the  greet  from  heart  to  heart. 
Before  we  cross  the  tide. 

But  sweeter  still  will  be  the  greeting 
Upon  the  other  side. 

And  when  we  've  passed  beyond  the  bar. 
And  landed  in  the  realm  afar. 

Landed  'neath  the  heavenly  dawning, 

Oh  friends!  we  '11  meet  with  a  "Good  morning!" 


163 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


A  SUMMER'S  DREAM. 

This  summer  night  is  still;  so  still 
That  the  horned  owl  on  yonder  hill 
Seems  half  afraid  to  hreak  the  spell 
And  call  his  mate  from  out  the  dell. 

The  bearded  hermit,  whip-poor-will, 
Has  ceased  to  send  his  challenge  shrill 
To  will-o'-the-wisp,  whose  wavering  gleam 
Lights  the  lone  marshes  by  the  stream. 

No  more  tonight  the  red  fox  barks, 
No  more  for  him  the  coney  harks. 

No  more  the  raccoon's  trembling  call, 
Or  cry  of  the  weasel  from  the  wall. 

Nature's  panacea  of  Eest, 

Of  all  her  gifts  is  first  and  best. 

Here,  under  Luna's  soft,  pale  light, 

Before  my  mist-enveloped  sight. 
Dim  spirit  forms  seem  grouping  near. 
And  whispering  voices  reach  my  ear. 

Of  friends  who  left  me  long  ago. 
Those  forms  in  times  of  old  I  knew. 

Some  clad  in  garments  of  the  farm, 

And  some  in  faded  army  blue. 

And  can  it  be  that  friends  come  back 
To  share  our  earthly  joys  and  ills? 
And  are  they  here  again  tonight 
To  tread  with  me  these  silent  hills? 

164 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Ah,  no!  the  hour  has  past;  my  wakened  eyes 
Gaze  on  the  morning's  ruddy  gleam; 
I  learn  at  last  with  sad  surprise. 
My  vision  was  a  summer's  dream. 

i5*         (^*         <5*         t^^ 

HOW  SOON? 

How  soon,  oh  Friend,  is  it  to  be? 

From  placid  earth  or  stormy  sea. 
From  busy  town  or  forest  wild, 
Is  He  to  take  his  humble  child? 

How  soon  from  summer  morning  fair. 

Or  winter  evening's  chilly  air? 
From  noonday's  clear  and  brilliant  light. 
Or  starless,  moonless,  gloomy  night? 

From  friendship's   kindly,   faithful  arms, 
Or  place  where  love  has  lost  its  charms? 
From  honor's  list  or  fame's  mad  race, 
Or  from  misfortune's  grim  embrace? 

To  go  to  land  where  flowers  bloom. 
Or  deserts  weird  and  ghostly  gloom? 
Where  bird  songs  fill  the  morning  air. 
Or  realm  of  darkness  and  despair? 

"Whene'er  it  be,  't  is  His  to  say. 
Where'er  we  go.  He  '11  show  the  way; 
He  '11  call  us  surely,  one  by  one, 
We  can  but  say,  "Thy  will  be  done!" 

165 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


TO  HON.  N.  P.  HUNT. 

Away  back  in  my  college  days, 

A  legend  stood  to  tell 
How  you  climbed  the  lightning  rod 

And  rang  old  Dartmouth's  bell. 

Mad  freak  of  a  wild  schoolboy  will. 

But  prophetic  in  a  way. 
For  you  've  been  climbing  ever  since, 

And  we  hear  your  bells  today. 

'T  was  always  Boots  and  Saddles, 
And  ever  push  and  climb; 

No  matter  where  the  chips  fell. 
You  hewed  straight  to  the  line. 

'Justicia  fiat,"  a  tenure  strong 

Of  stern,  judicial  school, 
Your  motto,  tho'  I  've  seen  a  tear 

When  you  held  to  the  iron  rule. 

Where'er  in  ranks  of  men  you  stood, 
Where  the  lines  of  life  were  cast. 

You  heard  the  voice  of  justice; 
You  served  her  first  and  last. 

And  now  in  glow  of  afternoon. 

Ere  yet  the  sunset  gold, 
Justicia  fiat  still  guides  on, 

As  in  the  days  of  old, 

166 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

I  wish  you,  Judge,  glad,  happy  years; 

Long  may  you  live  to  tell 
Of  the  night  you  climbed  the  lightning  rod 

And  rang  old  Dartmouth's  bell! 

%3^       ^3^       V*       ^3^ 

TO  CAPT.  DAVID  PERKINS. 

Capt.  Dave: 

I  wish  to  have  a  word  with  you, 

A  word  on  honor,  straight  and  true. 

I  've  yet  to  hear  from  the  pulpit, 

Or  at  the  bar, 
More  worldly  wisdom, 
More  humane  doctrines. 
Than  have  come  to  me  between  the  puffs 

Of  your  cigar. 

Down  in  the  quaint  old  Hubbard  store 

I  've  heard  your  sermons  o'er  and  o'er. 

Spiced  with  tobacco-laden  lore. 

How  some  forged  on,  and  gained  the  day, 

How  some  poor  fellow  dropped  by  the  way. 

With  truthful  lips  and  honest  eyes. 

No  one  e'er  said  that  David  lies. 

I  've  seen  you  buttonhole  a  tramp, 

A  ragged,  friendless,  homeless  scamp. 

And  preach  a  discourse 

Which  Brother  Bowers — and  I  hope  he  'a  near- 

Would  wish  to  borrow  if  he  could  hear. 

167 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

And  when  you  took  your  hand  from  his  arm 
A  coin  dropped  into  his  grimy  palm. 
That  's  religion;  that  is  heart; 
A  Christian  act,  a  manly  part. 

No  higher  praise  to  any  can  come 
Than  to  him  who  does  his  best 
To  aid  his  fellow  man 
And  raise  the  fallen  from  the  slum. 

Yiou  pinch  every  evil  doer, 
And  make  him  crouch  and  yield, 
But  you  would  not  crush  a  single  flower 
That  grows  in  God's  green  field; 

And  sometime  in  the  far  away — • 
Not  soon,  let  us  hope  and  pray — 
There  should  be  inscribed  above  a  grave, 
"Here  lies  a  lover  of  nature  and  of  mankind- 
Captain  Dave." 

t^^       ^w       ^5*       <^* 

TO  HON.  DAVID  CROSS. 

I  heard  your  voice  in  Fremont  times; 

I  saw  your  tears  when  Garfield  fell. 
I  Ve  loved  you  on  as  boy  and  man. 

Thro'  friendship's  long,  unbroken  spell 

I  've  followed  you  thro'  causes  dark; 

Success  seemed  hidden  in  the  night. 
I  've  seen  your  genius  wake  the  spark 

Which  brought  truth  forth  into  the  lischt. 

1G8 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Where  are  those  who  toiled  with  you? 

The  Morrisons,  the  Clarks — all  gone! 
Briggs,  Huse,  the  Bells,  no  longer  here, 

But  still  you  tread  life's  journey  on. 
With  brave,  strong  heart  and  vision  clear. 

In  the  seeding  and  the  growing  time 
You  wrought  with  manly  cheer. 

And  now  the  golden  harvest 
And  the  vintage  days  are  near. 

The  years  that  cluster  o'er  your  brow 
Are  not  like  faded,  pallid  sheaf, 

But  with  a  glory  ever  green. 
Like  never-dying  laurel  leaf. 

Ever  in  front  at  mercy's  call, 

Of  duty  ever  in  the  van. 
God  bless  you,  Judge!  We  hail  you  here, 

Beloved,  respected.  Grand  Old  Man! 

^*         t?*         t^*         w^ 

ALL'S  WELL. 

"All  's  well!"  calls  the  sentinel  at  night. 
As  he  paces  his  beat  to  and  fro. 
And  scans  with  eager,  sleepless  eyes 
The  silent  ranks  of  the  foe. 

"All  's  well!"  says  the  patient  man  of  thought. 
As  he  waits  for  reason's  dawn. 
From  centuries  of  darksome  mist 
To  the  glorious  light  of  morn. 

169 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"All  's  well!**  says  the  youth  as  he  takes  the  troth 

"With  a  kiss  from  the  blushing  bride. 
And  vows  that  ne'er  again  for  her 
Shall  cares  or  ills  betide. 

"All  's  well!"  says  the  weary  man  of  years 
As  he  lays  his  burden  down; 
Ah!  all  that  's  left  him  here  below 
Is  a  cross  without  a  crown. 

Far  out  on  the  picket-line  of  stars 

Old  Neptune  watches  grim, 
And  tho'  our  eyes  may  see  him  not, 

We  know  all  's  well  with  him. 

All  's  well  on  earth  and  on  the  sea, 

And  in  the  star-land  even; 
0,  may  we  feel  as  on  we  go. 

All  *s  well  for  us  in  Heaven. 

t^*       fc5*       <5*       t^* 

LINES  IN  MEMORY  OF  MAJOR,  MY  FAITHFUL  COON 

DOG. 

Still,  the  ever  faithful  heart. 

Closed,  the  almost  human  eye; 
Oh,  Death,  how  at  thy  name  we  start! 

Oh,  Nature,  what  is  it  to  die? 

A  life  went  out;  no  knell,  no  prayer; 

But  it  may  be  that  here  or  there, 
Upon  the  hillside  or  the  plain, 

He  's  waiting  for  his  friend  again.    . 

170 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

We  do  not  know  the  Master's  scheme. 
But  't  is  my  fondest  wish  and  dream 

That  pets  we  hold  with  love  so  rare. 
Shall  be  forever  with  us  there. 

I  ask  the  question  from  my  heart, 
"With  hope  that  cheers  and  thrills. 

Will  he  not  call  to  me  again 
From  off  the  dear  old  hills? 

For  I  shall  pause  and  listen, 
When  fall  the  shadows  dark. 

To  hear  again  that  welcome  sound, 
His  truthful,  ringing  bark. 

Some  whom  I  loved  have  failed  me. 

The  trust  I  gave  I  rue, 
But  in  sunshine  or  in  shadow 

Major  was  always  true. 

So  now  I  write  these  heartfelt  lines 
Of  one  whose  life  could  not  offend; 

Asleep  where  pine  tree  shadows  fall. 
My  mute  but  ever  faithful  friend. 

A  Belief. 

We  all  must  yield  to  God's  great  plan; 

With  man  or  dog,  it  'a  just  the  same, 
Sweet  dreams  and  peaceful  rest  at  last, 

No  matter  what  our  gifts  or  fame. 


171 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


THE  THREE  GRACES. 


[And  now  abideth  faith,  hope,  charity,  these  three;  but 
the  greatest  of  these  is  charity. — Cor.  xiii,  13.] 

Faith. 

She  looks  with  longing  vision, 

Out  on  the  waters  wide. 
Where  o'er  the  restless  billows, 

Eeigns  Venus  in  her  pride. 

She  sees  the  proud  ship  sailing, 

Heeds  not  the  breakers'  roar; 
She  knows  that  from  the  ocean 

Her  love  returns  once  more. 

Her  trust  is  grand,  tho'  tempests  howl, 

And  siren  voices  sing. 
His  heart  is  hers. 
He  has  her  troth. 

Her  finger  bears  his  ring. 

Oh,  Faith,  you  've  won  the  battle, 

On  many  a  cheerless  day; 
The  charm  which  flashes  from  thine  eyes 

Has  swept  the  clouds  away. 

For  when  along  life's  pathway, 

No  friendly  light  appears. 
Naught  but  the  ruin  of  fond  hopes. 

And  wrecks,  and  graves,  and  tears. 

172 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

An  arm  that  's  strong  sustaineth, 
A  pledge  that  's  ever  true. 

His  promise  to  His  children, 
"My  love  is  over  you." 

Hope. 

When  breaks  upon  the  headland 

The  angry,  seething  wave, 
And  ship  and  crew  and  cargo 

There  seems  no  power  to  save. 

When  the  trusted  anchor  of  your  bark 

Has  parted  from  the  rope. 
While  yet  the  star  is  shining, 

Oh,  mariner,  have  hope. 

That   steadfast,   cheering,   kindly   light. 
E'er  glowing  from  on  high; 

God  placed  it  there  to  guide  us. 
That  beacon  in  the  sky. 

On  life's  broad,  pathless  ocean. 
Where'er  your  course  is  laid, 

A  voice  calls  o'er  the  billows, 
"  'T  is  I;  be  not  afraid." 

Oh,  sailor,  look  above  you. 
As  with  the  waves  you  cope. 

For  radiant  in  the  heavens 
Is  the  symbol  of  your  hope. 

No  grander  countersign  of  life. 

E'er  whispered  o'er  its  sea. 
Than  that  which  fell  from  sacred  lips, 

"Hope  shall  abide  with  thee." 

173 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


Charity. 


When  one  whom  you  loved 

Mistakes,  falls  down, 
And  the  cold  world  gives  him  but  a  frown. 

Have  charity! 

If  he,  your  friend,  when  skies  were  dark. 
Himself  upon  his  luckless  bark. 
Strikes  reefs  and  shoals 

Of  an  angry  sea, 

Where  breakers  roar,  no  port,  no  lee; 
Gone  every  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope. 
All  gone  but  the  faintest  ray  of  hope; 
Gone  reputation,  wealth  and  fame, 
And  treasure  of  a  spotless  name, 

Have  charity! 

When  she  falls  beside  the  way. 
No  flowers  there,  no  friend  to  say, 
"Eise  up,  be  firm,  be  true,  be  strong. 
There  's  honor  yet  and  life  is  long; 
He  who  gave  it,  He  can  save; 
Eeck  not  misfortune,  but  be  brave," 
And  when  she  lifts  her  pleading  eyes 
Up  to  the  gloomy,  starless  skies. 

For  a  single,  cheering  ray  of  hope, 
Oh,  give  your  hand  and  bid  her  rise! 
Have  charity! 


174 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Faith,  hope,  and  charity  abide. 
Like  stars  they  ever  cheer  and  guide; 
Abide  to  make  our  lives  more  fair, 
To  bring  the  light  of  Heaven  more  near, 
Dispel  our  sorrow,  dry  the  tear. 
"But  the  greatest  of  these 
Is  charity." 

THE  PASTOR  AND  UNCLE  "EL." 

[A  tale  of  a  minister's  experience  in  Salisbury.] 

In  the  old  red  house  is  naught 

But  ghostly  shadows; 

The  chilling  breath  of  time 

Has  quenched 

The  cheering  backlog  blaze: 

Withered  and  scattered 

The  loves  and  blessings  of  other  days. 

Sitting  here  by  the  moss  grown  wall. 

Beneath  the  oilnut  tree, 

Where  in  days  so  bright  and  blithe 

Dear  TJhicle  "El"  would  grind  his  scythe, 

The  past  comes  back  to  me 

And  fond  memories  I  recall. 

Lingering,  musing,  here  alone. 
Where  once  for  him  I  turned  the  stone. 
Heard  the  chipmunk  on  the  wall. 
That  thrifty,  frugal,  half-tame  pet. 
It  seems  to  me  I  hear  him  yet. 
Answer  back  his  mate's  love  call. 

175 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

The  dear  old  man  was  not  rich. 
Worth  a  million  many  times. 
Like  a  Morgan  or  yet  an  Astor, 
But  prudent,  saving  of  his  dimes; 
Withal  generous  in  his  way, 
For  every  Christmas  he  would  give 
A  joint  of  pork  or  a  nice  fat  fowl 
To  the  good  old  pastor. 

Who,  in  turn,  next  Sunday  morn, 

Would  pray 

That  such  as  he  might  live  for 

Many  a  day. 

In  his  gentle  heart  did  love  abound; 

At  peace  with  all  the  world; 

His  barns  well  filled — no  debts; 

His  cellar  stored  with  earth's  best  gifts; 

No  apprehension  of  financial  stricture 

Held  o'er  his  life  Want's  horrid  picture. 

Albeit,  in  his  humble  way — 

'T  was  oft  done  then  and  is  today — 

He  'd  sometimes  turn  an  honest  penny, 

In  manner  right  for  him  as  any, 

Who  have  the  goods  and  wish  to  fill 

Their  coffers  up,  to  keep  until 

The  tax  man  and  the  store  man  come. 

To  dun  him  with  their  yearly  bill. 

And  so  when  some  lank,  thirsty  wight 
Would  call  on  him  by  day  or  night. 
The  rate  was  fixed,  the  price  was  set 
For  that  which  might  his  palate  tickle — 
A  mug  of  cider  for  a  nickel. 

176 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

They  had  no  license  in  those  days, 
Those  men  with  thought  and  purpose  high; 
But  when  friend  was  sick  or  cold  or  dry, 
Thank  God,  they  had  puritanic  ways; 
Would  do  a  favor  any  time. 
And  on  occasion  turn  a  dime. 

One  summer  eve,  I  've  not  the  date. 

The  boys  around  the  village  square 
Made  up  their  minds 
Old  Independence  Day  to  celebrate; 
They  fired  more  guns  than  I  can  tell. 
Broke  into  the  church  and  rung  the  bell. 

And  then,  it  is  not  strange,  I  think. 
Their  stomachs  craved  refreshing  drink, 
Like  juice  of  apple  or  wine  of  plum; 
They  had  no  use  for  gin  or  rum; 
Said  one,  "Let  's  call  on  Uncle  'El,' 
He  will  serve  us  and  never  tell." 

'T  was  a  nickel  a  mugful 
For  the  liquid  joys; 
They  drank  and  drank, 
'Til  the  cask  ran  low; 
And  then  passed  on. 
Those  wild,  free  boys — 
Woke  the  old  folks  up 
With  their  jolly  noise. 


177 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Who  «at  up  in  bed  and  heard  them  yell, 

Turned  hack  to  sleep  and  said,  "Ah,  well, 

They  've  been  down  and  called  on  Uncle  'El,' 

Never  mind;  it  's  Independence  Day; 

The  same  old  trick  we  used  to  play; 

Let  them  have  their  fun;  let  them  make  their  noise; 

*Boys  will  he  hoys!  Boys  will  he  hoys!'" 

But  the  parson  heard  them  and  he  was  sad; 
They  woke  his  wife  and  she  was  mad; 
She  said,  "My  dear,  good  Uncle  'El' 
Is  sending  those  hoys  right  straight  to  hell. 

"Now  you  must  call  on  him  at  morn. 
And  lahor  with  him,  sure  as  you  're  horn; 
Tell  him  it  's  an  awful  crime 
To  sell  them  cider  at  midnight  time." 

"If  I  go  there  and  scold  and  growl. 
Why,  I  may  lose  my  Christmas  fowl;" 
But  as  we  married  men  well  know, 
If  the  woman  said  it,  he  had  to  go. 
Down  went  the  good  man  with  wrinkled  brow; 
In  mind  I  seem  to  see  him  now. 
Ambling  the  flower-bordered  walk. 
With  dear  old  Uncle  "El"  to  talk. 

It  's  just  as  well  to  tell  you  here 
Uncle  "El"  was  along  in  years; 
The  infirmities  of  age  were  on — 
He  was  what  they  now  call  "tough  in  the  ears"; 
And  those  who  talked  with  him  thereabout 
,    Would  not  speak  low,  but  always  shout. 

178 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

The  parson  said,  "I  came  to  speak  about  the  cider;"' 

His  voice  broke  like  a  charge  of  powder; 

But  Uncle  "El/'  with  his  hand  to  his  ear, 

Said,  "For  God's  sake,  parson,  please  speak  louder." 

The  parson  opened  his  mouth  still  wider; 
"Did  you  fill  the  boys  up  on  your  cider?" 

Uncle  "El"  heard  the  last  word- 
Quick  to  speak,  tho'  he  was  old — 

Gave  back  from  his  big  heart — 
"Cider?    Yes,  I  '11  draw  some; 

Which  do  you  want,  the  new  or  the  old? 

Have  what  you  wish;  it  's  for  you  to  say; 

One  mug  or  two — just  half  the  regular  fee  to  pay." 

Said  parson,  "It  don't  accord  with  the  Word  of 

Christ " 

"Price?     Oh,  yes,  a  nickel  a  mugful  for  the  boys, 
But  to  you,  as  sure  as  I  'm  alive, 
I  '11  sell  two  mugfuls  for  a  five." 

Silent  stood  the  dazed  divine. 
His  pride  had  had  a  fall. 
And  yet  within  his  saintly  heart 
He  felt  the  still,  commanding  voice. 
Heard  word  of  duty  call. 

At  length  he  said,  "And  must  I  fail! 
And  must  my  purpose  weaken!" 
"Oh,  no,"  said  Uncle  "El."     "Oh,  no, 
I  'm  too  old  to  be  a  deacon." 

179 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS, 

Once  again  the  good  man  spoke: 
"I  'm  surprised,  sir,  on  my  life. 

And  need  you  ask  me  why?" 
"Well,  well,"  said  Uncle  "El,"  "well,  well, 

I  '11  send  some  to  your  wife, 

And  do  it  on  the  sly." 

"Good-by,  good-by,"  the  parson  said; 
"Good-by,  my  friend  of  old; 

I  hope  and  pray  to  some  time  dwell 

Where  cider  is  not  sold." 

Still  calls  the  chipmunk  on  the  wall, 
Still  stands  the  oilnut  tree; 
But  friends  who  made  the  old  home  glad 
Have  gone,  all  gone  from  me. 

t,5*       ^w       ^5*       (5* 

CHRISTMAS  GREETINGS.— THE  YULE  TIDE. 

Brightly  burns  the  log  tonight; 
Softly  glows  the  Christmas  light; 

Gently  sigh  the  winter  winds; 

Now  the  Yule  Tide  joy  begins. 

Now  sadness  from  the  heart  is  driven. 
And  promise  of  true  friendship  given; 
Now  faith  and  honor  pledged  to  last, 
And  truth  and  virtue  welded  fast. 

Burn  forever.  Yule  Tide  blaze! 
Stay  forever.  Yule  Tide  days! 

Sing  forever,  Yule  Tide  song! 

Though  life  be  short  or  life  be  long. 

180 


BALLADS  OF  THE  MILLS. 

Oh,  Yule  Tide  log,  still  may  you  glow; 

On  troubled  ways  your  glad  light  throw; 
At  Yule  Tide  time,  oh,  may  a  prayer 
Commend  us  to  Christ's  love  and  care. 

December  25,  1905. 

FROM  AMOSKEAG  TO  BUNKER  HILL. 

[Dedicated  to  Molly  Stark  Chapter  of  Daughters  of  Amer- 
ican Eevolution.] 

Of  that  same  month  in  seventy-five, 
When  Paul  Eevere  made  his  famous  ride. 
And  lit  the  revolution  spark. 
There  's  memory  grand  of  brave  John  Stark. 

Up  the  valley  came  sounds  of  war. 
Borne  on  the  south  wind,  clear  and  strong; 
John  Stark  heard  them,  he  knew  the  call, 
He  knew  the  notes  of  the  wild  war  song. 

He  'd  fought  in  bloody  Indian  times; 

Heard  their  battle  yell  'mid  the  northern  pines; 

The  fervid  fever  was  on  him  still; 

With  the  saw  in  the  log  he  stopped  his  mill. 

The  call  of  danger  brooked  no  delay; 

With  a  wave  of  his  hand  John  Stark  was  away; 

Not  for  glory, 

Not  for  fame. 
But  to  play  his  part  in  the  grim  war  game. 

181 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Away  he  rode  in  the  morning  air, 
Past  field  and  orchard  and  meadow  fair. 
As  ever  his  tireless,  hardy  steed 
Swept  on  and  on  at  his  utmost  speed. 

At  Cohas  a  moment  he  drew  the  rein. 

To  rally  the  Goffes, 

Then  on  again, 

On  to  Litchfield  tavern  stand, 

Where  he  told  the  men  of  that  loyal  town 

To  follow  him 

Ere  the  sun  went  down. 

His  blood  flowed  warm, 
And  his  pulse  throbbed  high, 
While  stern  and  hard 
Gleamed  his  Scotch  blue  eye, 

As  he  urged  and  spurred  with  barbed  heel. 

And  onward  sped  with  lion  heart 

And  nerves  of  steel. 

And  gave  his  cry 

In  tones  of  thunder,  peal  on  peal. 

Ever  calling  the  wild  ride  thro', 
"Rise  up,  comrades,  brave  and  true; 
Meet  me  at  Medford;  there  's  work  to  dol 

"We  fought  the  Indians  long  ago; 
Now  we  must  meet  the  British  foe! 

"I  left  saw  in  the  log; 
Leave  your  plows  in  the  field; 
The  war  storm  's  on; 
We  must  never  yield!"  ' 

1S2 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

A.nd  so  he  rode. 

The  whole  day  thro'. 

Sixty  miles,  if  a  furlong, 

Till  he  reached  the  place  of  rendezvous. 

Ever  shouting  the  danger  call, 
"Else  up,  brave  men;  come  one,  come  all!" 

Gathered  there  New  Hampshire's  clan. 
Backwoodsmen,  heroes  to  a  man; 
There  to  face  the  war  storm  dark, 
To  win  or  die  with  brave  John  Stark. 

Near  where  the  Mystic's  waters  lave 

The  sands,  ere  they  reach  the  ocean  wave. 

On  that  June-time  morning,  long  ago. 
They  stood  in  column  to  meet  the  foe. 

"They  're  coming,  coming!     Steady!     Steady!  ! 
Arms  aport!     Make  ready!    Ready!  !" 

From  man  to  man  the  order  flies, 
"Wait  till  you  see  the  whites  of  their  eyes! 

"Keep  cool!  Keep  cool! 
Don't  lose  your  head! 
The  whites  of  their  eyes! 
Then  aim  at  their  waist  bands! 
Don't  waste  your  powder! 
Don't  waste  your  lead!" 

183 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Grim  and  stern,  the  brave  men  stood, 
Fixed  as  their  own  New  Hampshire  pines. 
And  something  in  New  Hampshire  eyes 
Meant  danger  to  the  British  lines. 

Forward,  forward,  step,  step,  step, 

Howe  leads  his  veteran  column 

To  meet  the  battle  shock; 

They  break  against  New  Hampshire's  line 

Like  waves  upon  the  beetling  rock. 

The  rest  is  grand,  heroic  story, 

Tho'  a  battle  lost, 

A  field  of  glory. 

And  freedom's  cause  gained  courage  then 

From  Stark  and  his  New  Hampshire  men, 

Who  grimly  held  the  rail  fence  line. 
Not  knowing  how  to  yield. 
Retiring  with  unbroken  ranks. 
The  last  to  leave  the  field. 

There  at  Medford,  where  they  rallied. 
Strong  in  sturdy,  loyal  zeal, 
I  would  place  a  memory  stone, 
Engraven  with  New  Hampshire's  seal. 

And  in  epigram  would  tell 
How  once  there  gathered  here, 
Endowed  with  patriotic  will. 
Stark  and  his  New  Hampshire  men. 
Who  glorified  old  Bunker  Hill. 

184 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Sometimes  when  the  winds  of  night 
Blow  down  the  river  waters  dark, 
There  comes  along  the  crested  wave 
The  whispered  voice  of  brave  John  Stark, 

"Comrades!  Comrades!  ever  true! 
They  all  are  here  at  the  rendezvous!" 

Oh,  Muse,  whene'er  your  burnished  page 
With  honored  names  you  fill. 
Place  high  upon  the  scroll  of  fame 
The  men  of  Bunker  Hill. 

THE  OLD  BULKHEAD. 
[Dedicated  to  the  Candia  Club,  August  19,  1908.] 

You  who  left  the  dear  old  farm, 

And  won  your  way  to  wealth  and  fame. 

Who  feel  the  glory  and  the  charm. 
The  lustre  of  an  honored  name. 

Go  back  with  me  again,  I  pray. 
And  hear  the  olden  stories  read. 

And  sing  again  the  songs  of  yore 
Around  the  sacred  old  bulkhead. 

And  there  shall  be  no  dismal  tale. 

Where  ghosts  and  goblins  have  a  part. 

But  tides  of  joy  shall  flood  the  soul, 
And  well  with  echoes  from  the  heart. 

185 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Oh,  gather  there,  old  friends,  I  pray, 
With  moistened  eye  salute  the  dead; 

Clasp  hands  with  loved  ones  once  again; 
You  're  welcome  at  the  old  bulkhead. 

No  gilded  church  in  all  the  land. 

Where  surpliced  priest  the  mass  has  said, 

Can  hold  my  heart  with  ties  of  love. 

Like  the  quaint  and  homely  old  bulkhead. 

Blush  roses  graced  the  garden, 

Pearled  mayflowers  on  the  hill. 
But  from  the  dear  old  cellarway 

Came  perfumes  sweeter  still. 

Preserved  fruits  and  berries, 

Delicious  potted  jam, — 
No  angel's  breath  is  half  so  sweet 

As  cob-smoked,  pickled  ham. 

Tongues  and  sounds,  smoked  herring, 

Dun  codfish,  mackerel  galore, 
All  sat  in  joint  convention 

Just  down  the  bulkhead  door, 

While  from  the  further  corner. 

Beneath  the  great  front  hall. 
Like  blessed  breath  of  Araby, 

Came  odors  of  "stone-wall," 

All  mixed  up  for  occasion. 

To  serve  with  pewter  dipper; 
And  e'en  the  dear  old  parson 

Would  sometimes  take  a  nipper. 

186 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Why  should  he  not  commune  with  men 
Whose  lives  were  pure  as  day, 

Whose  word  was  good  as  sacred  writ? 
Was  he  holier  than  they? 

No  matter  what  his  culture. 
Or  thread  of  his  coat  or  hat, 

Be  it  that  his  heart  is  true, 
"A  man  's  a  man  for  a'  that." 

Alas!     These  wayside  gleanings. 
These  waifs  from  days  agone — 

The  world  neglects  them  all  too  soon 
As  cycles  whirl  us  on. 

But  while  my  star  shall  guide  me. 
And  life's  hard  path  I  tread, 

I  pledge  my  heart  that  once  a  year 
I  '11  wander  to  the  old  bulkhead. 


Candia,  dear  old  mother  town. 

They  linger  here  a  spell. 
Thy  children  who  have  come  to  thee 

Their  tales  of  love  to  tell. 

There  's  no  home  like  the  old  home, 
No  cheer  like  the  old  home  light. 

And  as  they  wander  back  again. 
Oh,  take  them  to  thy  heart  tonight. 


187 


BALLADS  OF  THE  BILLS. 


THE  BOY  WITH  THE  ALDER  POLE. 

Somehow  I  'd  like  to  make  one  cast 

In  this  old  brook  again, 
Although  I  'm  sure  my  friend  would  say, 

"You  '11  have  the  labor  for  your  pains. 

'*You  might  as  well  fish  on  dry  land. 
You  'd  catch  as  much  and  more." 
I  know  it,  man,  but  I  have  whipped 
O'er  this  same  stream  before. 

'T  is  for  the  romance  of  the  act 

I  wish  to  throw  a  line; 
The  current  seems  to  bear  to  me 

The  flash  of  memory's  wine. 

I  've  watched  its  waters  bubbling  on, 

Just  as  they  do  today; 
And  heard  its  mystic  music 

In  times  now  far  away. 

And  could  I  read  the  notes  it  sings, 

In  purling,  liquid  tone, 
I  fancy  it  would  tell  of  joys, 

Ah,  now  forever  gone! 

Of  how  in  good  old-fashioned  days 

We  boys  so  loved  to  steal 
Along  its  banks  with  alder  pole, 

No  leader  and  no  reel. 


188 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

No  book  of  artificial  flies; 

Indeed,  't  would  never  tell 
Of  brown  hackle  or  professor 

Or  Parmacheene  belle. 

No  basket  or  culexifuge, 

For  if  black  flies  were  thick 
What  cared  we?     We  let  them  bite. 

And  strung  our  fish  on  a  forked  stick. 

Ah!  those  were  golden  hours  of  joy. 

When  I  swung  the  alder  pole! 
Old-fashioned   hook,    old-fashioned   line! 

With  a  trout  in  every  hole! 

I  've  had  my  turn  at  fortune's  wheel; 

All  kinds  of  luck  same  to  my  creel, 
Tho'  never  better  on  the  whole 

Than  in  boyhood  days  with  an  alder  pole. 

When  voices  of  the  dear  old  stream 
Sung  of  the  things  that  were  to  be. 

And  e'en  the  crickets,  'mid  the  ferns. 
Piped  cheer  to  a  farmer  boy  like  me. 

Oh,  anglers  of  the  time  gone  by. 

Who  fished  the  brooks  that  now  are  dry 
As  in  your  camps  upon  the  shore, 
You  tell  your  stories  o'er  and  o'er. 

Where  the  waters  ever  surge  and  roll, 
Pray  don't  forget  the  days  of  yore, 

And  the  sport  you  had  with  an  alder  pole. 


189 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


THE  GOVERNOR  AND  THE  BEAR. 

[Governor  Charles  M.  Floyd  recently  climbed  a  tree  and 
captured  a  bear  cub,  hence  these  lines.] 

Dear  Governor,  how  about  that  bear? 

What  made  you  bring  him  home? 
He  'd  just  as  good  a  right  as  you 

Moosehillock's  slopes  to  roam. 

But  now  you  've  got  him  rounded  up. 

And  fastened  in  a  pen; 
Don't  cast  him  off;  he  '11  surely  be 

More  loyal  than  some  men. 

The  mother  bear,  had  she  been  near. 
Would  have  given  you  a  dance; 

She  'd  mauled  and  scratched,  as  females  will; 
You  'd  had  to  borrow  pants. 

But  ever  since  you  started  out, 

And  mixed  up  in  the  fuss. 
The  fortune  tide  has  come  your  way; 

You  've  been  "a  lucky  Kuss." 

No  matter  whether  catching  bears. 

Or  coining  up  doubloons. 
You  get  them  just  as  in  the  old 

We  used  to  capture  coons. 

3J)0 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Now,  Charles,  one  honest  word  I  say 

About  the  bear  to  thee, 
He  did  what  man  has  never  done. 

He  made  you  climb  a  tree. 

In  Holy  Writ,  that  Sacred  Book, 

You  surely  must  have  read 
How  Bruin  lammed  it  to  the  kids 

Who  said,  "Go  up,  bald  head." 

Keep  him  'til  you  're  old  and  gray, 

For  he  has  potent  charms; 
As  mascot  he  has  come  to  stay; 

Have  bear  on  your  coat  of  arms. 

And  sometime  when  you  're  out  of  date. 

And  laid  upon  the  shelf. 
He  '11  lam  the  "boys  for  poking  fun, 

And  run  the  camp  himself. 

Our  governors  in  the  days  agone 

Were  grandest  ever  seen; 
They  stood  on  honor's  sacred  soil, 

Some  hobnobbed  with  the  queen. 

Some  faced  the  battle's  fiery  breath; 

And  heard  the  cannon's  roar; 
But  not  a  man  in  all  the  list 

E'er  caught  a  bear  before. 


191 


BALLADS  OF  THE  UILLS. 

COL.    HENRY    B.    FAIRBANKS,    AUCTIONEER. 

(Hen  Fairbanks  Sells  a  Shirt.) 

How  much  am  I  offered 
For  this  yellow  striped  shirt? 
How  much  do  I  hear? 
How  much?     How  much? 

In  all  the  world, 
Not  another  such! 

Worn  by  Victoria  on  her  wedding  day! 
A  man's  shirt,  did  some  one  say? 
Well,  worn  by  Bonaparte,  anyway! 

A  hole!     That  's  where 
The  bullet  found  his  heart 
On  the  bloody  battlefield. 
Not  shot!     Git  out! 

The  Indians  shot  him  thro'  and  thro'; 

He  wore  that  shirt  at  Tippecanoe. 

Waterloo!     Well,  no  matter! 

Tipper  water,  hullabaloo! 

Any  old  canoe  will  do, 

If  I  only  sell  this  shirt  to  you. 

See  the  stain  where  flowed  life's  flood! 

Yellow,  did  you  say? 

That  's  the  color  of  royal  blood. 

192 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Ah,  no  quarter  for  this  will  do. 
They  gave  no  quarter  at  Tippecanoe. 

No  flap?    There  's  flap  enough 

For  a  pair  of  pants  for  your  father-in-law, 

Or  a  shroud  to  bury  your  first  wife's  aunt. 

Five  cents,  do  I  hear,  for  the  blooming  rag? 
It  's  worth  more  'n  that  for  a  campaign  flag. 

Ten  cents,  I  hear!     Ten  cents!     Gone! 

Sold  to  Nate  Sleeper,  to  scare  coons  from  his  corn. 

^*         t^*         ^*         ^* 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 
'Iling  out  the  Old,  ring  in  the  New." 

The  Yule  Tide  log  burns  glad  tonight; 

Bright  shine  the  stars  above; 
And  in  our  hearts  glows  clear  the  light 

Of  faith  and  hope  and  love. 

# 
Fair  seems  the  promise  of  the  New, 

Like  shadow  grim  and  cold 
The  year  that  passes  from  our  life 

To  cycles  dim  and  old. 

A  prayer,  a  mass  for  the  dying; 

A  requiem  and  a  tear; 
A  farewell  with  a  salam. 

For  the  end  is  drawing  near. 

193 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

But  when  the  sun  of  morning 

In  glory  shall  appear. 
Then  sing  a  joyous  welcome 

To  the  bonny,  glad  New  Year. 

December  31,  1905. 

MUSTERED  OUT. 

[Bead  at  the  reunion  of  the  Old  Fourth  New  Hampshire 
Regiment,  August  23,  1906,  on  the  site  of  the  camp-ground, 
where  they  mustered  in  1862.] 

No  tattoo  rattle  of  the  drum, 

No  bugle's  martial  sound. 
As  here  tonight  you  tent  again 

On  the  old-time  camping  ground. 

No  orderly  shall  dress  the  line; 

No  roll-call  shall  be  read; 
But  still  you  con  from  memories  scroll 

Names  of  the  living  and  the  dead. 

The  dead,  ah,  yes!  by  hundreds. 

The  living  but  a  few; 
A  few  with  soldier  hearts  as  brave 

As  when  they  wore  the  blue. 

Here  on  this  spot  a  thousand  men 

Gave  pledge  to  Him  on  high. 
That  every  star  should  still  remain 

On  Old  Glory  of  the  sky. 

194 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Call  the  roll  of  old  commanders, 
Tom  Whipple,  Parker,   Louis  Bell; 

If  their  silent  lips  could  answer. 

What  deeds  of  valor  they  would  tell. 

Not  of  men  with  stars  and  eagles, 

For  not  by  them  the  fields  were  won; 

But  of  the  fighting  private  soldier, 
The  boys  who  stood  behind  the  gun?. 

Call  on  Virginia's  soil  to  answer. 

Where  your  comrades  fought  and  fell, 

Drury's  Bluff,  The  Mine,  Cold  Harbor, 
Let  their  shades  the  story  tell. 

And  as  to  them  you  sadly  listen. 

And  drop  meanwhile  the  memory  tear. 

You  will  hear  from  each  the  answer, 

"The  Old  New  Hampshire  Fourth  are  here. 

'*Here,  in  bivouac,  sleeping,  waiting, 
Till  the  final  bugle  call 
Awakens  blue  and  gray  together, 
Eeveille  summons  to  them  all." 

Men,  there  's  little  we  can  render, 

Little  we  can  say  or  do, 
But  I  pray  you  once  in  every  year 

Put  on  the  army  blue. 

Form  again  the  broken  column, 
Take  the  marching  step  once  more. 

Dress  the  line  above  the  fallen. 
As  in  battle  days  of  yore. 

195 


BALLADS  OF  TEE  BILLS. 

Soldiers,  shadows  hover  near  you. 
Hover  near  and  share  the  praise. 

Of  the  loyalty  and  valor. 

In  those  dark  and  bloody  days. 

Here  you  took  the  oath  and  mustered. 
Marched  away  'mid  loyal  cheers; 

Here  again  a  shattered  remnant. 
After  many,  many  years. 

No  more  the  charging  fury, 

Ko  more  the  battle  shout, 
Calmly  wait  the  final  order, 

"Brave  men,  you  're  mustered  out." 

t^^         tff^         ^*         ^* 

TO  LYDIA  A.  CHASE,  ON  HER  EIGHTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

Dear  old  neighbor,  dear  old  friend. 

My  love  and  blessing  to  thee  I  send 

Tonight,  as  you  pause  at  the  eightieth  stone. 
And  think  of  the  friends  who  have  passed  and  gone. 

An  ideal  teacher,  not  of  schools. 

But  teacher  of  moral  Christian  rules. 

My  heart  regrets  that  it  is  not  true 

That  I  was  an  ideal  pupil,  too. 

How  pleasantly  your  kindly  face 
Comes  back  through  forty  years; 

It  glowed  with  mother  love  for  all; 

You  shared  our  joys  and  tears. 

196 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Though  we  were  husky,  wayward  boys. 
We  always  had  a  friend 

"With  gentle  voice  to  chide  our  wrongs. 

And  helping  hand  to  lend. 

Those  boys  were  lovers  in  their  way — 
To  you  they  pledged  their  vows. 

I  've  often  thought  in  later  days 

Where  are  those  lovers  now? 

Ah!  ask  the  boatman;  he  will  say 
Many  have  passed  with  him 

Across  the  wave,  beyond  the  mist. 

To  sleep  in  shadows  dim. 

A  few  are  left  along  the  line 
That  weakens  year  by  year; 

And  soon  the  roll-call  will  disclose 

No  more  remaining  here. 

But  still  your  kindly  eye  is  bright. 
And  still  your  heart  is  strong. 

May  He  who  guides  the  ways  of  men 

Give  us  your  presence  long. 

And  when  you  pass  across  the  wave. 
May  your  loving  boys  of  old 

Extend  glad  hands  and  guide  your  steps 

Along  the  streets  of  gold. 


J  97 


IN  MEMORIAM  OF  FRIENDS  AT  REST. 


ALPHA. 

In  the  white-winged  ships  of  Time, 
Sailing,  sailing  from  the  shore. 
Away  beyond  the  harbor  bar. 
Our  friends  have  passed — 
Will  they  come  no  more? 

They  've  passed,  but  left  a  record  grand. 
Entwined  by  memory's  golden  band; 
We  see  them  not,  but  their  works  remain; 
Oh,  surely,  they  will  come  again! 


200 


BALLADS   OF  THE  HILLS. 


HE  TOLD  ME  HE  WOULD  COME  AGAIN. 

[To  Dr.  L.  M.  French.  My  friend,  at  the  request  of 
fellow  classmates,  I  dedicate  this  verse  to  you,  in  anniver- 
sary memory  of  our  heloved  brother.  Dr.  Henry  Minot 
French,  who  left  us  June  13,  1893.] 

"We  cannot  read  between  the  lines, 

We  cannot  trace  the  cause, 
But  God  our  courses  rules  and  guides, 

Oh,  question  not  His  laws! 

Across  the  sea,  beyond  the  bar. 
Beyond  where  sets  the  evening  star. 
Where  breaks  the  morning  ever  bright. 
His  soul  passed  on  and  found  the  light. 

He  told  me,  when  he  left  the  shore, 

"I  go  to  rest — not  far  away; 
When  day  has  come  and  night  is  o'er 

My  ship  will  sail  into  the  bay." 

Since  then,  oh,  many  times  I  've  looked, 
When  from  the  tribute-bearing  waves 
The  sun  of  morning  swept  the  veil. 
That  I  might  once  more  see  his  sail. 

But  tho'  from  off  the  distant  shore 
The  friendly  winds  blew  o'er  the  sea. 

And  I  have  watched  with  longing  eyes. 
He  ne'er  came  back  to  me. 

201 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Oh,  grand,  true  friend,  we  miss  thee, 
Thy  hand,  thy  smile,  thy  song. 

Thy  loyal  heart,  thy  strength,  thy  love, 
We  've  missed  them,  ah,  so  long! 

But  thro*  the  years  I  'm  looking 

Far  out  upon  the  sea. 
And  watch  and  hope  and  linger  on 

Till  thy  bark  comes  back  to  me. 

"We  who  are  yet  in  harness. 
Who  still  the  wine-press  tread. 

Oh,  Father,  may  we  some  time 
Embrace  our  blessed  dead. 

June  13,  1908. 

t^*  t^w         tS^  (^W 

ONE  MORE  GONE! 

[Fairfield,  Our  Classmate.] 

Now  the  kindly  stars  of  Heaven, 
Glowing  in  the  western  skies. 

Pearl  the  dewdrops  on  the  flowers, 
Where  our  fallen  comrade  lies. 

Guard  him  fondly,  faithful  sentries. 
In  his  bivouac  by  the  sea. 

Loyal  heart. — The  soul  of  honor. 
This  the  boon  we  trust  to  thee. 

Thine  to  rest,  oh  classmate,  brother, 
Dream  of  loves  and  friends  of  old; 

Gently  passed  the  spell  upon  thee, 
Tho'  it  broke  the  bowl  of  gold. 

202 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Blessed  peace  and  bliss  of  Heaven, 
These  the  prize  thy  sweet  life  won; 

Friend,  we  know  they  're  thine  forever. 
When  we  whisper,  ''One  more  gone!" 

TO  MR.  AND  MRS.  EDMUND  B.  HULL. 

In  Memory  of  Harry. 

A  life  as  sweet  as  flower  of  June  has  gone. 
A  soul  as  pure  as  the  light  of  noon  passed  on; 

He  loved  the  spots  where  flowers  bloom; 

Oh,  leave  him  there  in  Nature's  tomb! 

'T  was  his  to  make  the  world  more  glad; 

To  cheer  when  weary  hearts  were  sad; 
His  thoughtful,  kindly,  generous  way 
Made  gloom  of  night  seem  like  the  day. 

Dear  mother,  cease  to  murmur, 
You  will  see  your  boy  once  more; 

Dear  father,  he  will  meet  you. 

When  your  boat  has  touched  the  shore. 

Greet  you  both  with  the  smile  of  old  time. 
With  loving  hand  and  gladsome  cheer; 

Welcome  you  to  land  of  sunshine, 
No  shade  of  sorrow  and  no  tear. 

The  garlands  that  you  place  above  him 

May  pass  and  wither  in  a  day. 
But  your  hearts'  fond,  loving  tribute. 

Oh,  that  can  never  fade  away. 
203 


BALLADS   OF   THE   HILLS. 


A  PURE  WHITE  ROSE. 


[Dedicated  to  the  Hon.  Cyrus  A.  Sulloway,  in  memory  of 
his  mother.] 

A  simple  shrub  was  set  in  uninviting  soil, 

'T  would  seem  no  germs  of  incensed  beauty  there. 

But  every  year  as  summer  comes  and  springtime  goes, 

There  buds  and  blooms  a  pure  white  rose. 

Long  has  the  blossom  with  its  peaceful  charm 
Burst  on  the  June-time  air  at  Wild  Meadow  Farm; 
Long  did  the  care  of  a  gentle  heart  and  kindly  eye 
"Watch  it  and  guard  it  as  the  years  passed  by. 

She  gave  to  the  world  a  sturdy  man, 

With  great,  brave  heart  and  figure  grand  as  Cardigan, 

Which  every  day  when  the  sunset  hour  has  come 

Casts  its  shadow  o'er  Wild  Meadow  Home. 

And  now  as  she  rests  beside  the  stream. 

Where  the  cardinal  flowers  gleam, 

And  the  fronded  fern  with  the  violet  grows. 
The  ever  faithful,  loyal  son  guards  the  sacred,  pure  white 
rose. 

My  friend,  do  you  ever  think. 
As  from  Mother  Earth 

Its  heavenly  beauty  springs, 

A  message  of  love  from  her  it  brings? 

204 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Do  you  ever  see,  as  its  petals  rise, 

The  blessed  light  of  a  mother's  eyes? 
Do  you  hope  with  me,  when  this  act  we  close, 
We  shall  find  somewhere  that  pure  white  rose. 

With  all  the  beauty  and  sacred  charm 

As  of  old,  at  dear  Wild  Meadow  Farm? 

We  cannot  tell,  we  do  not  know; 
But  it  may  be  so;  it  may  be  so. 

What  tho'  you  stand  in  halls  of  fame, 

Where  honor's  worthy  tributes  fall, 
You  '11  ever  prize  the  pure  white  rose. 

Her  cherished  emblem,  over  all! 

And  sometime,  perhaps,  when  our  spirits  rise, 
Its  bloom  may  greet  us  'neath  other  skies, 

And  our  paths  and  ways  when  each  one  goes 
Will  be  blessed  with  perfume 

Of  the  pure  white  rose. 

<5*         ^*         t5*         ^* 

TO  MR.  AND  MRS.  D.  W.  BARTLETT,  IN  MEMORY  OF 
THEIR  SON,  REV.  NORMAN  H.  BARTLETT. 

Oh,  is  that  noble  voice  now  silent? 

And  but  in  memory  does  it  ring? 
Or  do  we  hear  its  heavenly  cadence. 

As  angels  touch  the  quivering  string? 

Are  yet  his  manly  words  triumphant 
O'er  human  passions,  human  will? 

Or  is  the  weary  one  still  resting 
Beneath  the  stars  beyond  the  hill? 

205 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Oh,  has  his  life  gone  out  forever? 

And  broken  is  the  golden  bowl? 
Ah,  no!  your  dear  one  is  exalted, 

From  stricken  body  rose  the  soul. 

And  some  time  you  will  see  him;  know  him; 

Embrace  again  your  darling  boy; 
His  welcome  will  be  fervent  rapture; 

Can  heayen  grant  you  greater  joy? 

Your  loved  one,  think  not  he  has  fallen. 
Though  he  's  gone  from  earthly  ills, 

He  is  waiting,  calmly  waiting, 
In  His  pastures  on  the  hills. 

Waiting  to  receive  his  dear  ones, 
When  they  pass  from  toil  and  pain; 

Waiting  to  renew  the  love  ties. 
To  be  broken  ne'er  again. 

December,  1906. 

t^*       t^*       (,5*       t^^ 

HON.  AUSTIN  CASS. 

Another  tree  has  fallen. 

In  the  woods  I  love  so  well; 
Another  friend  dropped  from  the  line, 

Whose  place  no  one  can  fill. 

A  weary  heart  is  resting  now, 

From  years  of  toil  't  is  still, 
Forever  shrouded  from  the  world. 

In  its  grave  on  Burial  Hill. 

206 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Nature's  forces  shaped  thy  life; 

'T  was  molded  by  their  spell, 
Strong  as  the  oak  upon  the  hill. 

As  sweet  as  wild  rose  in  the  dell. 

Zealous  for  the  rights  of  man, 

Thy  life's  best  strength  was  spent  to  save 
The  sway  of  freedom  in  the  land. 

And  blot  from  earth  the  words,  "A  slave." 

In  the  darksome  days  of  old. 

Sought  by  great  men,  near  and  far. 

For  'mong  the  giants  of  the  times 
Thy  wisdom  was  a  guiding  star. 

O'er-modest  of  thy  precious  gifts, 

Else  in  life's  fitful  game, 
You  might  have  climbed  to  glory's  heights. 

And  gained  an  heritage  of  fame. 

Eest  on,  dear  friend,  reck  not  the  past. 

In  the  future  that  shall  be, 
Upon  the  other  fairer  shore, 

We  hope  to  meet  with  thee. 


207 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  CHASE. 

Dear  "Gust/'  't  is  hard  to  say  good-bye; 

It  saddens  me. 

Though,  manfully,  I  try 
To  keep  the  moisture  from  my  eye. 

In  loving  touch  for  fifty  years — 

Who  blames  a  man 

For  shedding  tears 
When  messenger  on  high  appears 

And  waves  his  hand,  and  tells  a  friend 

His  time  is  up, 

It  is  the  end? 
That  friend  whose  heart  could  ne'er  offend. 

That  friend  who  thro'  a  life  of  toil 

Has  done  his  best 

To  till  the  soil 
Of  loyalty  'twixt  man  and  man, 

With  hope  and  cheer,  this  life  to  span. 

To  all  mankind 

He  was  good  and  true. 
In  honor  pure  as  the  heavens  are  blue. 

I  'm  sad,  my  friend,  and  tho'  I  try 

To  keep  the  tear  floods 

From  my  eye. 
They  will  come  when  I  say,  "Gust,  old  boy. 

Good-bye,  good-bye." 

208 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


TO   MRS.  ANNIE  GREEN,  IN  MEMORY   OF  WALTER. 

Deck  his  grave;  he  may  not  know  it; 

Breathe  a  prayer;  he  may  not  hear, 
But  still  when  fall  the  shades  of  evening 

Yon  feel  his  loving  heart  is  near. 

Ask  the  stars;  they  will  not  answer, 
Nor  will  lights   of  morning  tell, 

Yet  upon  the  vesper  breezes 
A  whispered  voice  says,  "All  is  well." 

Sweet  his  slumber,  when  he  sleepeth; 

Calm  his  rest;  there  is  no  pain; 
He  will  waken  in  the  morning. 

And  will  come  to  thee  again. 

Come  upon  the  phantom  squadron. 

Cross  o'er  the  phantom  sea, 
And  when  reveille  notes  are  heard, 

Unite  again  in  love  with  thee. 

You  were  ever  brave  and  loyal. 

Thy  deeds  the  angels  tell; 
To  thee  their  sentry  without  challenge 

Will  whisper  softly,  "All  is  well." 


209 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


AT  THE  OLD  RED  GATE. 


[In  memory  of  Edwin  Goto,  late  of  Weare,  my  companion 
in  sports  of  forest  and  stream  for  many  years.] 

Where  stood  the  old  Eed  Gate,  I  muse, 

This  quiet,  peaceful  morn. 
Ere  yet  the  God  of  day  unfurls 

The  banners  of  the  dawn. 

The  autumn  plumes  are  gleaming 

Along  the  "Chipmunk  Eill," 
And  cohorts  of  the  forest  grand 

Are  massed  on  "Crany  Hill," 

Here  in  the  chosen  spot  of  old, 

I  wish — and  is  it  vain? 
That  I  may  hear  his  footsteps 

At  our  trysting  place  again. 

At  times  I  have  a  fancy, 

I  'm  holding  by  the  hand. 
And  feel  the  breath  upon  my  cheek. 

Of  friends  from  the  unknown  land. 

They  meet  me  in  the  haunts  of  old. 

When  evening  shadows  fall; 
In  glamour  of  the  midnight  moon 

I  hear  their  whispered  call. 

0  Allah  kind!  who  brings  to  me 

The  joys  of  other  days. 
Who  leads  me  through  the  forests  grand. 

O'er  long  forgotten  ways, 

210 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

I  pray  you  from  your  voiceless  realm, 

Where  the  web  of  fate  is  wove, 
Grant  one  more  tramp  'neath  the  hunter's  moon, 

As  of  old,  with  Edwin  Gove. 

His  heart  was  gentle,  tender. 

And  tho'  blunt,  unkempt,  uncouth. 

In  age  he  worshiped  Nature 
With  the  fervor  of  his  youth. 

Companion  of  the  long  ago, 

I  feel  you  near  today. 
But  here  or  there,  your  memory 

Shall  ever  with  me  stay. 

Weake,  Septembee,  1907. 

x^f         ^w         ^*         t^* 

IN  MEMORY  OF  AUNTIE  MOORE. 

[Mrs.  Caroline  A.  Moore  died  January  8,  1906.] 

Silent  is  its  silver  music, 

When  the  harp  rests  on  the  urn; 

Silent  are  the  earthly  voices. 

When  the  stars  of  evening  burn. 

Our  beloved  one  has  passed  from  us. 
Passed  from  life,  the  boon  so  sweet; 

She  has  left  us  in  the  evening. 
Gone,  her  loved  of  old  to  meet. 

211 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Still,  the  heart  so  full  of  kindness; 

Closed,  the  tender,  loving  eye; 
But  we  feel  she  yet  is  living, 

And  will  greet  us  by  and  by. 

Tho'  the  days  seem  long  without  her, 

While  we  linger  on  the  shore, 
We  shall  bless  her  memory  ever. 

Bless  the  name  of  "Auntie  Moore." 

Jantjahy  10,  1906. 

MEMORIA. 

[In  a  wild  section  of  Warner,  N,  H.,  in  the  vicinity  of 
Bear  Pond,  is  a  grave,  evidently  of  a  child  buried  long  ago; 
hence  these  lines.] 

No  stone  to  mark  it;  't  was  a  child; 

Long  years  't  has  slept  in  the  forest  wild. 
Slept;  no  murmur  of  a  prayer, 
Tho'  hope  and  love  were  buried  there. 

A  sigh,  perhaps,  and  a  tear  was  shed. 

Then  passed  to  earth  the  tiny  dead. 
To  sleep  in  wild  wood,  there  alone. 
Till  angels  roll  away  the  stone. 

'T  is  just  as  well,  say  what  we  may, 

Tho'  soul  of  genius  left  the  clay; 

Passed  out  at  break  of  morning  light, 
Passed  on  to  starless,  dreamless  night, 

Tho'  name  and  memory,  all  are  gone; 

Sleep  on,  dead  child,  sleep  on,  sleep  on. 

212 


BILL  ADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 


FLOWERS  FOR  THE  DEAD. 

Dear  sister,  I  have  placed  the  flowers 
Where  father  and  mother  lie, 

And  Lucy,  with  her  golden  hair, 
And  George,  with  his  brave  blue  eye. 

I  left  them  there  with  a  silent  tear 
For  our  darlings  who  have  gone; 

The  dear  ones  who  now  sleep  so  still 
Beneath  the  chiseled  stone. 

The  flowers  will  wither  soon  and  fade. 

As  all  have  done  before. 
But  blessed  memories  of  our  dead 

Will  live  forevermore. 

Warkbr,  Septembee,  1904. 

(^w       ^*       t3^       t^* 

MRS.  CLARA  E.  CASSIDY. 

She  's  passed  beyond  the  threshold, 
Gone  thro'  the  open  door; 

Her  smile  has  faded  from  our  sight; 
It  gladdens  us  no  more. 

No  more  the  cordial  greeting; 

We  miss  her  welcome  cheer; 
No  more  the  clasp  of  friendly  hand 

Or  loving  presence  here. 

213 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Why  do  we  bow  in  sadness, 
And  shed  the  sorrowing  tear? 

Our  dear  one  has  not  left  us; 
Her  soul  is  ever  near. 

The  gentle  spirit  lingers, 

Her  loving,  tender  eye, 
A  benediction  ever, 

A  blessing  from  on  high. 

Oh,  friend!  we  know  you  're  near  us, 

Tho'  we  weep  for  you  today. 
Gone  just  a  step  or  two  before 

To  point  us  to  the  way. 

Place  flowers  of  beauty  o'er  her, 

Our  darling,  whom  we  love. 
And  sing  in  praise  forever 

Of  the  dear  one  passed  above. 

c^        ^5*        t^*        <(?• 

HENRY  W.  HERRICK,  ARTIST. 

A  gentle,  kindly,  godly  man. 

So  pure  in  thought,  so  true  of  heart, 
'T  would  seem  that  He  had  laid  the  plan 

To  make  him  of  Himself  a  part. 

And  as  he  trod  the  weary  way. 

Made  sad  by  life's  deep  rut  and  groove, 

His  smile  turned  bright  the   darksome  day; 
His  cheering  word  rough  places  smoothed. 

214 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

His  hand,  kind  subject  of  his  will, 
Served  well  its  master  in  his  art; 

He  made  us  better  by  his  skill; 
He  led  us  near  to  Nature's  heart. 

As  when  the  sun  of  day  sinks  down. 
Leaves  us  in  gloam  of  coming  night. 

There  still  remains  a  burnished  crown, 
A  golden  coronet  of  light. 

So  now  of  our  dear  friend  I  say, 

Tho'  for  a  time  passed  from  our  sight. 

His  gentle  spirit  lingers  still 

To  make  our  sunset  years  more  bright. 

"We  cannot  fathom  heavenly  ways; 

We  cannot  tell  how  crowns  are  won; 
But  from  on  high  I  seem  to  hear 

The  Master's  blessed  words,  "Well  done.*' 

August  9,  1906. 

t^^  ^*  iS^  «5* 

WILLIAM  WALLACE  DAVIS. 

As  one  by  one  the  star  gems  fade, 
And  lights  of  evening  cease  to  glow, 

As  do  the  heavenly  lamps  above, 
So  one  by  one  my  friends  must  go. 

He  whom  I  loved  as  boy  and  man, 
A  life  o'erflowing  with  good  will. 

Has  left  his  pine  embowered  home 
To  sleep  'neath  pines  upon  the  hill. 

215 


BALLADS  OF  TEE  HILLS. 

0  harpers,  as  in  other  days 

You  sung  your  songs  above  his  head, 
Forever  may  your  sacred  lays 

Be  murmured  o'er  the  blessed  dead. 

My  friend,  you  've  lain  your  burden  down; 

No  more  of  sorrow  or  of  pain; 
Eest  on  beneath  the  pine  tree  shade. 

And  sometime  we  may  meet  again. 

Manohester,  N".  H. 

^*       (,5*       ^*       ^* 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  C.  W.  E. 

As  I  sit  here,  thinking,  musing. 

Gazing  out  into  the  gloam. 
From  my  heart  comes  plaintive  question, 

Charlie,  why  have  you  gone  home? 

Caused  the  sadness  of  a  parting, 
And  the  welling,  sorrowing  tear? 

If  you  hear  me  now,  dear  Charlie, 

Speak  from  heaven  and  make  it  clear. 

We  are  told  you  calmly  wait  us 

In  the  home  of  rest  above; 
That  your  great  heart  still  is  beating 

In  the  realm  of  peace  and  love; 

That  there  is  no  tear  or  sadness 

Where  their  silent  tents  are  spread; 

That  there  comes  no  sigh  or  murmur 
From  the  loved  and  blessed  dead. 

216 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

But  if  ever  you  are  listening 
In  that  land  so  bright  and  fair, 

Oh,  Effendi,  may  you  hear  us, 
Hear  our  murmur  and  our  prayer — 

Prayer  that  unto  us  be  given 
Light  that  we  may  see  and  know 

Why  the  edict  of  the  High  One 
Was,  dear  friend,  that  you  must  go. 

And  if  from  the  peaceful  restland 

Goodly  answer  ere  appears. 
Then  we  '11  cease  to  sigh  or  murmur, 

Cease  to  sorrow — dry  our  tears. 

AN  EVENING  REVERY. 

[In  Memory  of  S.  C.  C.*] 

Old  Pal,  the  sun  is  down,  the  night  is  nigh; 

The  wood  blaze  on  the  grate  burns  high; 
As  evening  shades  around  us  hover. 
Let 's  light  our  pipes  and  talk  it  over. 

And,  while  the  smoke  curls  thick  and  blue, 
I  '11  dedicate  a  verse  to  you, 

Eeminiscent  of  a  day 

Of  joy  and  hope  now  far  away. 

We  stood  in  classes  side  by  side, 
And  felt  the  swirl  of  youth's  wild  tide; 
Its  flood  o'erflowing,  full  and  strong. 
Sometimes  did  right,  but  often  wrong. 


*  The  late  Stephen  C.  Cram. 

217 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

And  when  the  master's  strap  we  'd  feel, 
As  on  our  outstretched  palm  it  fell. 

We  'd  beat  in  measure  with  our  heels. 
But  not  from  us  a  sob  or  yell. 

Of  praise  and  blame  each  bore  his  part, 
And  even  now  on  life's  rough  ways. 

Steadfast  ever,  heart  to  heart. 
We  're  loyal  as  in  olden  days. 

We  tramped  same  pastures,  fished  same  fitreams; 
We  robbed  same  pear  trees,  dreamed  same  dreams. 

How  o'er  the  past  tonight,  old  Pal, 
The  kindly  light  of  memory  beams! 

What  tho'  in  gladsome,  careless  days. 
We  trod  forbidden  paths  and  ways. 

And  broke   commandments  now  and  then. 
We  were  boys  and  pals, 

We  were  not  men. 

We  had  to  do  it;  't  was  in  our  blood, 
The  buoyant  youth-tide  at  the  flood; 

We  wronged  no  woman,  man  or  child, 

Except  ourselves,  by  being  wild. 

Our  work  was  play, 

Each  sowed  his  tare, 
And  now  beneath  September  skies. 
The  vintage  comes, 
And  fate  has  brought  to  each 

His  share. 


218 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

And  there  ever  lingers  with  us. 

As  night  drifts  on  to  day, 
Tond  visions  of  the  dear  ones, 

Who  passed  us  on  the  way. 

Tho'  tried  in  time's  grim  furnace, 
Tho'  chastened  by  the  years, 

There  yet  are  joyous  mornings. 
And  still  more  smiles  than  tears. 

Ho!  the  blaze  on  the  grate 
Burns  dimly. 

But  embers  now  remain; 
Our  pipes  are  out. 
So  here  's  good  night! 

Old  Pal,  drop  in  again. 

What!  have  I  been  dreaming. 

Here  in  the  gloom  alone? 
Or  talking  with  a  friend  who  lies 

'Neath  sorrow's  chiseled  stone? 

Tell  me,  ghosts  of  midnight. 
Ere  your  shadows  drift  away. 

Will  he  come  again  at  morning, 

When  the  sun  brings  back  the  day? 

Or  will  his  spirit  join  me 

When  I  sit  in  twilight  shade, 

Beside  the  dear  old  river, 
Where  years  ago  we  played? 

219 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Or  must  I  wait  to  meet  him 

Upon  the  other  side, 
When  my  phantom  bark  has  landed. 

Beyond  the  whispering  tide? 

(5^       tS^       ^^       ^* 

The  memorials  to  other  deceased  classmates  are  given  in 
the  poem  entitled  "Springtime  and  Autumn." 

^W         %ff^         t^w         t3^ 

HE  WON  THE  STAR  OF  A  BRIGADIER. 

[Col.  E.  E,  Cross,  Fifth  Kew  Hampshire  Volunteers,  killed 
at  Gettysburg,  said  on  the  morning  of  the  battle,  "I  win  a  star 
today  or  die.'^] 

All  day  the  battle  lions  roar; 

All  day  the  savage  gun  dogs  growl; 
At  night  across  the  field  of  death. 

They  heard  the  war  wolf's  dismal  howl. 

Still  urged  he  on  with  bloody  spur, 
Still  flashed  brave  Cross's  fearless  eye, 

As  from  his  lips  there  fell  the  pledge, 
'^y  boys,  I  win  a  star  or  die." 

He  won  it,  and  while  Clio's  hand 
Shall  write  a  memory  o'er  a  grave. 

She  '11  place  above  that  hero's  name 
The  title,  "Bravest  of  the  Brave." 

220 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Now  on  the  field,  'neath  "Round  Top's"  shade, 
Where  loyal  winds  blow  evermore, 

Memorial  of  a  Spartan's  death, 
Stands  emblem  of  his  army  corps. 

And  could  he  speak  to  them  again. 

From  off  the  southern  hills  afar, 
He  'd  tell  the  remnant  that  is  left, 

"My  boys,  I  won  the  star." 


October  14,  1908. 


BALLADS  OF  THE  HILLH. 


OMEGA. 

'T  is  grand  to  live  the  allotted  span; 

We  love  this  boon,  the  life  of  man; 
We  love  our  earth,  the  sea,  and  sky. 
We  know  not  what  it  is  to  die. 

We  know  not  of  the  other  side. 
What  joys  or  ills  may  there  betide; 
But  still  we  trust  His  promise  grand. 
Of  bliss  prolonged  in  heavenly  land. 

Of  love,  and  if  there  is  to  be 
A  life  reserved  for  you  and  me, 
A  consummation  gained  on  high, 
Ah,  then,  't  is  sweet  for  us  to  die! 

Well  may  we  contemplate  His  plan. 
The  ways  of  God  withheld  from  man; 
Tho*  the  future  we  cannot  foretell. 
Trust  on  with  faith,  't  will  all  be  well! 
'T  will  all  be  well! 

May  earth  her  loving  tributes  give! 

And  heaven  her  fondest  blessings  send! 
Until  we  fare  the  journey  thro' 
From  Alpha  to  Omega, 

From  beginning  to  the  end. 


INDEX. 


INDEX. 


Page. 

Abandoned  Farm    133 

All  's  Well  ; 169 

Alpha     200 

Ami  Brook    23 

Army  Blue    99 

Auntie  Moore  (in  memory)   211 

Austin   Cass    (in  memoriam)    206 

Bacchanalian  Bullfrog   50 

Badger   Hill    13 

Beyond  the  Sea  157 

Bill    Vitty    20 

Boy  with  the  Alder  Pole  188 

Capt.  David  Perkins    167 

Charity    174 

Charms  of  Kinnicum  Swamp   33 

Clara  E.  Cassidy  (in  memory)    213 

Company  G   145 

C.  W.  E 216 

Davis,  William  Wallace   215 

Did  She  Think? 80 

Edward  A.  Chase  (in  memory) 208 

Evening  Revery  (in  memory)    217 

Faith    172 

Faithful  Joe 109 

Flowers  for  the  Dead 213 

Fox's  Runway    126 

Freem '. 40 

From  Amoskeag  to  Bunker  Hill 181 

Friendship's    Tribute     86 

God's  Garden   11 

Good  Morning   163 

225 


INDEX. 

Page. 

Good  Night     162 

Gougeville 160 

Governor  and  the  Bear   190 

Hammock    Revery    60 

Harry  B.  Hull   (in  memory) 203 

Hayseed    88 

Hen   Fairbanks    192 

Henry  M.  French  (in  memory)    201 

Henry   M.   Putney    133 

Henry  W.  Herrick   (in  memory')    214 

He  Won  the  Star  of  a  Brigadier  220 

Home  Light  on  the  Hill 107 

Hon.  David  Cross  168 

Hon.  N.  P.  Hunt  166 

Hope    173 

How   Soon    165 

In  Touch  with  Nature  108 

Is  it  Bed-Time,  Herr? 36 

Joe  Bowie    41,42 

Kearsarge    7 

Lady  Gray  158 

Lamp  of  Memory   25 

Loyalty   38 

Lydia  A.  Chase    (birthday)    196 

Major,  My  Faithful  Coon  Dog   170 

Memoria   212 

Monument   by  Patten  Brook 28 

Moses  Gage  Shirley  (birthday)    156 

My  Friend 142 

Mustered  Out  194 

My  Tryst  with  Nature  102 

New  Year's  Eve  193 

Norman  H.  Bartlett  (in  memory)    205 

Old    Badger    Woods 103 

Old   Bulkhead     185 

Old  Dog  and  Gun   120 

Old   Fireside    153 

Old   Hoyt  Schoolhouse 9 

226 


INDEX. 

Page. 

Old    March    Meeting-Day 53 

Old  New  Hampshire  Hills  5 

Old  Red   Gate    210 

Old  Salisbury   155 

Old   Shabbagee    76 

Old  Stagecoach    129 

Old  Stone  Wall  14 

Omega     222 

One  More  Gone!    202 

Pastor  and  Uncle  El  175 

Place  Where  we  Made  Mud  Pies 18 

Pure  White  Rose 204 

Quakers    148 

Rev.  S.  C.  Kimball  (birthday)   73 

Sale  of  Colby  Farm    75 

Samuel  B.  Hope 159 

Sentiments  of  a  Classmate   143 

Springtime  and  Autumn  Ill 

Squog   River's  Song    35 

Summer's  Dream    164 

The  Manito    61 

The    Master    144 

The   Pines    79 

Tiger  Lily    8 

To  Annie  Green   (in  memory  of  Walter)    209 

To  Aunt  Eunice  Chase  (birthday)  139 

To  E.  A.  Jones   (birthday)    38 

To  the  War  Veterans    43 

To  S.  C.  C 138 

Tribute  to  Louis  Bell  Post  81 

Triumph  of  Anglo-Saxon  Race  66 

Vermonter's  Joke    63 

Warner  Hills     24 

Wedding   Benedicta     141 

What    Cheer    47 

Wild  Birds'  Song  137 

Wild  Flowers  and  Wild  Songs  106 

Woodland  Walks  of  Old   17 

Yuletide    180 

227 


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